


When Enemies Attract

by withprettywords



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 106,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withprettywords/pseuds/withprettywords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Federer loses to Djokovic in the 2008 Australian Open things start to change between them. Suddenly the very public not-friends become secretly more than friends and eventually lovers. All with lots of drama in between!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not know Roger Federer or Novak Djokovic, or claim that this is in any way representative of their true lives. I do not make any profit from the writing of this story. This is fiction.

Roger Federer stalked into the locker room after his straight sets loss to Novak Djokovic in the 2008 Australian Open. He knew the reporters were waiting for him, but the tennis champion found himself dreading their questions. This young arrogant Serbian knocked him off his throne, and in straight sets! He could blame his brief spout with food poisoning the previous week for the loss, five days of bed rest while Djokovic was out playing warm-up tournaments, but excuses are beneath Roger.  
  
Mirka found him in his solemn state. Usually her presence brought him joy, or at least comfort, but today he was merely annoyed by his girlfriend. Choosing the cold disposition of his ‘manager’ rather than lover, she reminded him that the press was waiting on him and it would be rude to keep them waiting any longer. Reluctantly, he followed her to the conference area and answered their questions.  
  
The press conference was a blur to Roger. He tried to be graceful about his defeat, and say only encouraging things about Djokovic and his ‘promising future’. There was no reason Roger should abandon his classy public demeanor. _At least I can be remembered for that_ , the tennis champion thought bitterly. The ride back to the hotel was awkward. The Federer camp shared his limousine and an eerie silence filled the back seat. Mirka placed a comforting hand on Roger’s knee, though the gesture was lost on the Swiss man.  
  
\-------------------------------------------  
  
After sulking in his room for several hours, Federer made his way down to the small pub on the lowest level of the hotel. Wearing a pair of dark jeans, a black colored t-shirt with a graphic design on the front in dark gold, and a navy blue beanie, Roger was doing his best to evade the notice of the pub’s other inhabitants. He got a mere half hour of solitary drinking time before he was interrupted.  
  
“Why dark clothes? Mourning your career already, Roger?” spoke a familiar Spanish voice. Roger turned to find his good friend and on-court rival Rafael Nadal.  
  
“Ah, Rafa. You should be mourning yours as well,” Federer commented somberly, taking a sip of his beer.  
  
“Yes. I sulk last night,” Nadal replied, taking a seat on the barstool next to his competitor and making a small gesture to the bartender. “Today, I am positive. Competition is good. It gives us something to strive for. It doesn’t always have to be you and me in the final. That’s not tennis at its best, Fed.”  
  
Somehow the Spaniard’s words were comforting. Though they often found themselves in finals matches, competing at the highest level of tennis, this pair managed a supportive friendship off-court about which few knew. They kept a light conversation about the tournament as a whole, their performances in each match, and even what caused their downfall in the semifinals. Federer’s evening was beginning to brighten up. That is until Novak Djokovic’s posse sauntered into the pub. The Murray brothers, Novak and his younger brother Marko took a table in the corner of the pub, all seeming quite tipsy already. They were so lost in their “celebrating” that they didn’t seem to notice the top two players in the world seated at the bar.  
  
“What are _they_ doing here?” Federer asked, returning to his foul mood.  
  
“I’m sure you’ve gone out to celebrate with your friends after big matches too, Fed,” replied Nadal, not nearly as concerned with the rowdy crowd.  
  
“Certainly not with only one day to prepare for a Grand Slam Final!” Roger said with frustration.  
  
“He is young, he’ll learn. Now if you don’t mind terribly, I’m going to save myself a phone call and congratulate him now. Maybe even advise him a bit about Tsonga. I don’t think I’m ready for a wildcard to win the Aussie Open,” Nadal explained amusedly, hoping this gesture would not offend the number one player; they had been getting along so nicely lately. Federer offered only a grunt in reply and waved Rafa off toward the party table.  
  
“Congratulations, Novak. I hear you are on the verge of your first Grand Slam title,” Nadal offered conversationally.  
  
“Thank you, Rafa. But I haven’t won yet,” Djokovic replied, fighting with his tongue to not slur the words.  
  
“Well I cheer for you, man. And I know Fed will be too…eventually,” the Spaniard gestured to the number one player at the bar, turned away from them. For the first time that night Novak noticed the brunette man brooding across the room. He gave a grateful smile and nodded, suddenly lost in thought.  
  
The first thing on his mental agenda was how rude they must appear, drinking and partying freely in front of the man he just defeated. ‘Great, I bet he hates me by now. This will certainly make our matches awkward,’ Novak thought, relieved that the words in his mind were clearer than the ones slurring out of his mouth. When Nadal returned to his friend at the bar, Novak shared his sudden somber feelings with his pals.  
  
“He prolly thinks we’re jerks, man. Rubbing it in his face,” Novak reluctantly admitted, pushing away his drink and opting for a large handful of cheesy fries.  
  
“We didn’t know he was here, mate,” Andy sympathized. “He is probably far too pissed to notice by now. Roger was here before us.”  
  
While his friends attempted to reassure him, Novak filled his stomach with the starchy cheese-covered vegetable on the plate in front of him, hoping that the old wives’ tale about food being a sobering agent is somewhat true. After several handfuls of greasy fries, or “chips” as the Murrays insisted they were called, and three bottles of mineral water, Novak was sobering up. He was suddenly aware of how much of an idiot he had been, celebratory drinking before he had much to celebrate and proving himself to be one of the most immature players on the tour. How was he supposed to earn the respect of the two men sitting at the bar if he put on such foolish displays?  
  
At some point during his mental ramblings, Federer had left the hotel pub leaving Nadal alone at the bar. Curious to see the impression he had made, Novak joined the Spaniard.  
  
“So did I make an ass out of myself or what?” Novak joked as he approached his tennis comrade.  
  
“Well you certainly proved your age,” Nadal returned the jest, not acknowledging that he is the same age as the Serb. “I take it you are not familiar with alcohol.”  
  
“Not at all. One or two drinks here and there, usually after I lose matches though. Andy said this is what people do when they beat the number one player in the world. How do you usually celebrate?”  
  
“At my first Slam final I was the same. I won the French only days after my twentieth birthday. Double the celebrating was due. But you still have a huge match and I’m sure you wake up with hangover from hell tomorrow.”  
  
“I’m beginning to feel it already,” Novak agreed. He was trying to think of a way to casually segue Roger back into the conversation; though when his brief pause turned to awkward silence Novak abandoned the smooth form of conversing and just asked the question on his mind. “Do you think I should apologize to Roger? I swear we didn’t know he was here.”  
  
“Well he wasn’t really _that_ mad, but you could I guess. He just headed up to his room, suite 607,” Nadal replied, smiling slyly. He knew Roger was angry, but the Spaniard felt that a confrontation was needed between the two men and it was probably best kept away from the media.  
  
Djokovic thanked Rafa for the information and left the bar after saying goodnight to his group, explaining that he was suddenly very tired. Once in the lobby he jogged to the elevator and pushed the up button repetitively until the doors slid open. There was a beautiful woman in the elevator in a sexy red dress that was obviously insulted when Novak didn’t give her a second glance, but he was far too busy arranging words in his head so he wouldn’t make a fool of himself again in front of the well-respected Swiss man who already believed him to be exceptionally arrogant.  
  
When the doors finally opened on the sixth floor, Novak took off running in the direction of the seventh room, inadvertently insulting the woman further. Just as he was about to step up to knock on the door, an irate looking Mirka stormed out the door. She glared at the young tennis player before slamming the door behind her and walking off in a huff toward the elevator. For a moment Novak questioned if he should face Federer at all, but eventually he got the nerve to knock softly on the door.  
  
“Mirka, could this wait until tomorrow?” Roger said loudly as he walked toward the door. Opening it dramatically with his glare of annoyance firmly in place he was taken aback to find the taller frame of a man outside his door. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment when he realized that his competitor had just heard him speak rather rudely at what he assumed to be his manager/girlfriend coming back for round two of their argument. A moment of panic hit him. What if Novak shared that with the press? Mirka and Roger work very hard to keep their relationship looking peachy for the press, or really to hide the not so peachy moments from prying eyes. Novak readjusted his stance outside the door awkwardly, shaking Roger from his thoughts and onto a new one.  
  
“What are you doing here, Djokovic?” Roger asked in a harsher tone than he intended.  
  
“I um,” Novak stumbled on his words, his prepared speech from the elevator slipping away. “Could I come in?” he asked earnestly, not wanting to bear his soul in the hallway.  
  
Federer took a step back from the door frame allowing the Serbian to slip past him into the entry room. Novak sat casually on the sofa by the door, Roger choosing to sit in the chair facing him. They sat in awkward silence for a few moments before Novak spoke.  
  
“I uh—I just wanted to apologize for um—for the way me and the guys acted back in the pub. I know we were being rowdy and probably really annoying, and really overdid it with the alcohol,” Novak said quickly, inwardly wondering when he began overusing the word ‘really’ and deciding that it was a recent development...like in the last five minutes.  
  
A smirk formed on Roger’s face. “Don’t worry about it,” he said calmly. “It is easy to go too far with the Murray boys. They like their booze,” he joked. Novak nodded in agreement.  
  
“So are we good?” the Serb asked hopefully.  
  
“Yeah, we’re good,” Federer replied, his anger slipping away. It had been awhile since he had spent time with Novak off court. He had forgotten that when the competitiveness of their profession was turned off, and the Serb was away from the media, the boy could be quite pleasant.  
  
“I was actually hoping to run into you before your match against Tsonga,” Roger said before abruptly standing up and walking into the larger connected bedroom, wondering vaguely to himself why he suddenly wanted to help the Serb. He returned moments later with a red file folder.  
  
“Here,” Federer said, handing the folder to the younger man.  
  
Novak opened the file gently, not sure what to expect. “Your notes on Tsonga?” he asked as soon as he saw the French player’s picture.  
  
“Yeah. I had Mirka make a copy. Someone might as well get some use out of them,” he said, trying to hide the mild frustration that still plagued him. He was so ready for that match. It wasn’t entirely true that this copy was meant for Novak, it was really just an extra copy that would have gone to his coach if Roger had won.  
  
“Are you sure you want me to have these?” Novak was a bit shaken. Here he was trying to apologize to someone he was sure hated him and instead the man gives him a game plan to win? As he looked over the notes, Novak noticed many helpful strategies scribbled in the margins around Tsonga’s statistics, ideas the he probably wouldn’t have come up with on his own.  
  
“Yes. Rafa and I talked about it. We don’t want a wildcard to win the Aussie Open. If it can’t be one of us, then we’d like it to be you,” Roger said confidently, hoping that the Serb didn’t approach Rafa about it, considering no such plan had been made.  
  
Novak nodded in agreement. He didn’t think it was appropriate to have such a low ranked player win a Grand Slam either. He had to defeat Tsonga if he ever wanted to be in the same league as Rafa and Roger.  
  
“Watch out for his serve. It’s modeled after Roddick’s, and he loves to come up to net off his first serve. His forehand is his biggest weapon, but his backhand isn’t bad either. He has a slight preference for down the line backhands so be careful not to leave that area vulnerable.”  
  
Novak was taking mental notes. He had watched the Nadal and Murray matches against Tsonga, but he hadn’t noticed all those things. The only thing he noticed about Tsonga was the raw power behind his strokes, which wasn’t nearly enough to form a game plan around.  
  
They talked tennis for awhile longer before switching to mild gossiping about others on the tour. After returning from the restroom, Roger found his competitor sleeping on the couch. “Geez, I wasn’t gone that long, was I?” he said jokingly, but the Serb didn’t respond. Roger chuckled to himself and fetched the extra blanket from the closet and a pillow from the bed. Once he had the younger player settled in, Roger changed clothes and climbed into his bed.  
  
Roger found that sleep didn’t come easily to him that night, despite all the alcohol. He was left pondering the day’s events, and the strange ending to his night. It was hard to imagine that just four hours ago he had been in the hotel pub, drowning his sorrows in alcohol and hating on the Serbian tennis player who had easily dismissed him on court. He was still angry about that and Novak’s behavior afterwards, but there was no hint of arrogance in Djokovic once he entered Federer’s room. Perhaps he was trying to be polite, or scared to be off his turf and so clearly on the other player’s ground. It was a side of Novak that Federer hadn’t seen and he was troubled by his snap judgment about the younger man. It was rare for Roger to think poorly of another person, even rarer for him to think badly of a fellow tennis player, but from the moment he met Novak he disliked him. It might have started even earlier than that. As a habit, Roger regularly tunes into the juniors matches at the Grand Slams, checking out future competitors and supporting the youngsters, who always get a kick out of his presence at their match. This is where Roger first saw Djokovic.  
  
It was the 2004 Australian Open, four years ago. Novak had made it all the way to the Semifinals before being shut out in straight sets. It wasn’t a lack of talent that caused the Serb to lose, but rather an attitude problem that was evident from the moment he walked on court. It was strange to see a junior player be so cocky, especially in the presence of the world number one. If Roger could have predicted Novak’s future based on that match, he would have written him off completely. There is no place for that kind of behavior on the ATP tour, or so he thought. It was funny to think that the racket-throwing, obscenity-yelling kid from that match had just sought him out to apologize for something as minor as going overboard in celebrations. Roger was proud that the Serb respected him enough to rush over so quickly to apologize, wanting to be in Federer’s good graces.  
  
After what must have been an hour of reflection, Roger finally drifted to sleep, still thinking about the man currently passed out on his sofa.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning and Djokovic wins his first Grand Slam!

Novak awoke the next morning with a mind-splitting headache and was confused by his whereabouts. It took him nearly five minutes of worried panic to remember that he had gone up to Federer’s room to apologize and didn’t recall ever leaving the suite. The Serb quickly gathered the few things he had and left, pausing only to scribble a note to Roger on the hotel stationary. He snuck through the hotel until he found his room, three floors lower. An old woman in the elevator gave him an irritated grimace when he pushed several buttons before remembering the actual floor number of his suite. After many awkward stops in the elevator on various floors, he quickly exited and snuck into his room.

He wasn’t expecting to see anyone upon entering, but he found his younger brother was lying on the extra bed still dressed in that night’s clothes. Novak assumed he had been waiting up for him, probably very confused as to where his brother had gone. The Serb felt guilty for lying, but at the time it seemed necessary to protect his reputation. He couldn’t tell them that he was rushing off to essentially beg for forgiveness, from Roger Federer of all people, that sort of thing was for pansy boys.  
  
Novak stripped down to just his boxers and climbed into bed. He couldn’t sleep at first because of his headache, but after downing the maximum dose of pain pills he was able to go back to sleep.  
  
\-----------------------------------------------  
  
“I don’t know when he got in. I fell asleep waiting up for him,” Marko spoke quietly. “When I woke up he was here.”  
  
“Maybe he got lost,” Andy Murray whispered jokingly.  
  
“Or found something better to do,” Jamie Murray piped in with a suggestive smirk.  
  
Novak hadn’t realized he was awake enough to listen until he suddenly felt the need to get up and explain himself. But what would he say? He snuck off to Federer’s room where he fell asleep after having a pleasant chat for over an hour? No, the truth wouldn’t be best in this situation. If they knew he would be teased endlessly, or worse they would dare to tease Roger, maybe even mention it to a reporter or two. Suddenly Novak remembered the woman in the elevator, the one dressed in red. He didn’t remember much about her, but he could always claim he was with her.  
  
Novak rolled over toward his group and opened his eyes slightly, enough to fake a gradual awakening. He was immediately bombarded with questions.  
  
“Where did you wander off to last night?”  
  
“What time did you get in?”  
  
“Did you get lost?”  
  
The questions came so fast that he didn’t know which to answer first, or which guy asked them.  
  
He decided to just tell the story he had made up rather than answer questions, which would most likely lead to blowing his cover story.  
  
“When I was in the elevator coming up to the room, I met this hot girl and she invited me back to her room,” he said with feigned confidence, hoping they wouldn’t ask any more questions.  
  
“What did she look like?” Andy asked, more curious than suspicious.  
  
“Blond hair, red dress, nice body. I just hope she’s not a tennis player, I don’t think I asked her name,” he said jokingly, truly hoping that he never saw that woman again.  
  
The guys seemed to accept the story and quickly changed the subject to his upcoming match. It was nearly ten in the morning and he had scheduled to hit with Andy around noon. Novak was glad to slip off into the shower to get ready for his day of rest, which would be more like a stressful day of last minute training. Ideally he should have asked Nadal to hit, the Spaniard’s style being more like Tsonga’s, or if he was really daring he could’ve asked Federer last night considering the Swiss man was readily handing out advice, but Novak wasn’t that brave. He would have to settle for his good friend Andy, whose style wasn’t much like Tsonga’s, but they always had good matches.  
  
When both the Djokovic boys had left the room to get dressed the Murrays sat on the bed waiting for their friends to return. Jamie waited until the shower popped on before speaking freely to his brother.  
  
“So you know that girl Novak said he spent the night with?” Jamie started hesitantly.  
  
“Yeah,” Andy replied with obvious suspicion.  
  
“Well. I have reason to believe he wasn’t with her,” said Jamie.  
  
“Why do you think that?” his brother asked.  
  
“Because I was with her,” Jamie said with a smirk.  
  
“How do you know it was the same girl he’s talking about?” Andy inquired.  
  
“She was hanging out in the elevator for a while. She just stayed in there. I think she was hoping to meet some famous tennis player since all of us are staying at this hotel.”  
  
“Well I guess she was lucky to meet you then,” Andy joked. “But why would Nole lie about that? Where do you think he really was?”  
  
“I don’t know. Obviously he doesn’t want us to know…”  
  
\---------------------------------------------------------------  
  
When Roger woke up the next morning he found his suite to be quite empty. It was a rare occurrence for Mirka to sleep in his room at major tournaments, as his manager/ publicist she got her own room, but it was not her he was surprised not to see. When he entered the sitting room connected to his bedroom he was expecting the younger tennis star to be sprawled out on the sofa just as he left him, but the boy was nowhere to be found. Instead, Roger found a note from the Serb.

“Sorry I crashed here. Thanks for the info. See you later, Novak.” It was short, but to the point and surprisingly without signs of smugness or arrogance. Roger laughed as he remembered the previous night and had a sudden overwhelming urge to call Rafa and tell him about the Serb’s strange behavior, but thought better of it considering that for the first time in their short acquaintance, Novak and he had gotten along quite well. Perhaps he should wait until after their next interaction. Who knows how Novak will act toward him when they’re not alone or drunk.  
  
As Roger headed downstairs for some breakfast, Mirka happened to open her door as he was passing.  
  
“Hey babe,” she said sweetly, as if they didn’t have a huge fight the night before.  
  
“You look nice,” Roger observed aloud, surprised by her colorful day dress. She had a habit of wearing ‘comfortable’ clothes in their down time recently that were usually unflattering and boring, but today she looked happy and aglow.  
  
“Thank you, honey. Have you had breakfast yet?” He nodded no. “One of the girls recommended this adorable little café that I was going to check out. Would you like to join me?”  
  
She was trying so hard to make up for yelling at him the previous night that Roger couldn’t help but agree. She had made a whole list of things she wanted to do that day in Melbourne and Roger was happy to follow along. He wasn’t used to seeing the sights while on tour. Usually he was playing matches all the way through the finals or somberly sat in his room if he lost early. Wandering around Melbourne was a nice treat.  
  
When they parted ways after dinner, Roger was surprised that the day had gone so well. Outside of tennis, they didn’t do much together anymore. Every meal they spent together was packed with tennis related conversation, but today his career wasn’t even mentioned. It was like old times, hanging out on their days off. Roger almost invited her to spend the night in his room, but he figured that eight hours of peace was all they could expect from one day and any more might lead to another argument.

Roger flipped on the television to a random movie and snuggled up in his bed. Before falling asleep he programmed the TV to turn on when the men’s final came on the next morning so he could watch. Roger considered actually going to the match, but decided it was best to stick around the hotel. He usually watched matches on TV anyway. There was something awkward about sitting in the crowd with all the fans when he was scouting out opponents or even cheering for friends. Most of his friends would offer him a spot in the player’s box, but he rarely accepted, always feeling strange about taking a seat from a family member or trainer. It would be even stranger if he was seen supporting Djokovic, someone the public knows he has a beef with. He didn’t even know if Novak would be happy to see him hanging around. TV was definitely a better choice. Roger called the front desk and ordered breakfast for the following morning, and then went to sleep.  
  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
  
The day went quickly for Novak, his nerves building with each hour that passed. Brunch was a distant blur in his memory, as was his practice session with Andy, which was productive but short. Novak was expecting to practice longer, but the Australian heat was taking its toll on his body and he wanted to save his energy for the next day. After a large, carbohydrate-filled meal he went to bed early, looking over Federer’s file and running strategies through his mind until the moment he closed his eyes.  
  
\--------  
  
 _Novak found himself in Rod Laver Arena staring up at a faceless crowd. He shook hands with the chair umpire and hurried off to his side of the court. His opponent was a ball machine, shooting tennis balls at him as fast as Roddick’s serve. He lunged for each ball, but he just couldn’t get there in time. Before he could finish his play on one ball, another was bouncing on the court for him to track down. It was a losing battle; there was no way he could get to all of them.  
  
Suddenly Federer appeared in the crowd, the only person to actually have a face in the thousands of bodies that filled the stands._

_“Stick to your game, Nole,” the man said reassuringly. “Trust your shots. Believe in yourself. You **can** do this.”_

_Novak nodded and the balls started flying again, only this time he was keeping up with them. Every ball flew over the net with perfect precision. After Roger spoke to him, Novak didn’t miss a single shot. Finally the umpire yelled “Game. Set. Match. Djokovic” and he knew he had won, that he **could** win the match._

_Novak ran over to the stands and pulled Federer over the barrier and onto the court with him. He hugged the older man tightly._

_“I knew you could do it,” said Federer with a smile._

_“Thanks for believing in me,” Novak replied._

_“I always have,” the Swiss man replied, kissing the champion lightly on the forehead._

_The Serb pulled away. “What was that for?” he asked._

_“I’m proud of you,” Roger replied, beaming with joy._

_“That means a lot,” Novak said softly, now realizing for the first time how much it did mean to him, or would mean. There wasn't a player out there that Novak respected more than Federer, and as far as he was concerned, the Swiss man was the greatest tennis player to ever grace the courts. The thought of someone so epic caring about him in the slightest was almost breathtaking._  
  
The Serb’s eyes popped open at the sound of his alarm. He grabbed the hotel stationary from the bedside table and scribbled down his dream before he forgot it. It was a strange dream, that much was certain, Freud would have a field day analyzing it, but he didn’t have time to think it through fully. In just a couple of hours he had a Grand Slam final to play.

\------------------------------------

Roger didn’t wake immediately when the television flipped on, showing Novak and Tsonga bouncing around nervously in the locker room. It wasn’t until harsh, rapid knocking sounded against his door that he pulled himself from bed. There was a stout man dressed in a navy suit with the hotel logo embroidered on his chest waiting expectantly with a tray of food. Roger stepped away from the door, allowing the man to enter and place his breakfast on the bedside table. Roger dug in his wallet for a tip, but only had a five with him. The man gave him a forced smile when he saw the lowly bill, clearly expecting more from such a high-status player. Roger blushed slightly but returned the smile, hoping that he was putting more meaning into the look than it actually held.

Roger settled back into his bed now glancing at the television for the first time that morning. It was easy to see that Novak was nervous, his usual cocky demeanor stifled down to a mere predatory smirk. Roger wasn’t very familiar with Tsonga’s mannerisms, but from what he could tell the man was even more nervous than the Serb. The Frenchman had a dreamy look in his eyes that could only be compared to a child’s first glance at the expansive ocean, realizing for the first time how small they are in comparison. If Novak played well, he could easily intimidate Tsonga into a submissive defeat. The Frenchman was riding an epic wave of good fortune and chance, but the ride would soon be over. It was all up to him now; Novak Djokovic was their last hope.

\-----------------------------------------

He looked around the stadium, noticing how different it was than his dream. There was a sea of faces, all unfamiliar but present. His box was full, as always, with his loud family and their matching white track suits, each bearing one letter of his name. The Murray brothers whooped loudly from their seats behind his parents. The rest of the box was filled with various members of his camp: tennis coach, physician, trainer, nutritionist, publicist, manager.

Novak had a lousy start to the match. It seemed that Tsonga was less nervous than he appeared. Before the Serb could take over the lead the first set was gone. The break between games was longer than usual because there was a switch of tennis balls. Djokovic used this time to refocus. He thought of the file Federer had given him and all the clues scribbled in the margins. The words the Swiss man told him echoed in his head, “His forehand is his biggest weapon, but his backhand isn’t bad either. He has a slight preference for down the line backhands so be careful not to leave that area vulnerable… Watch out for his serve. It is modeled after Roddick’s and he loves to come up to net off his first serve.” Novak nodded visibly and stood up, ready to continue. He knew what to do. As he collected the balls to serve, Novak continued his thought of Federer’s encouraging words, only this time it was dream Roger’s words that he heard. “Stick to your game Nole… Trust your shots. Believe in yourself. You **can** do this.”

\----------------------------------

Roger found the match almost painful to watch. It seemed Novak was about to be shut down just like Nadal had been in the last round. Federer left the room to take a shower and calm his nerves. When he returned, Roger found that the match had turned. Djokovic now had a set as well and was leading in the third. There was a knock at his door and Federer could barely pull himself away from the screen long enough to answer it. Rafa’s friendly face was on the other side, smiling as he stepped inside.

“Are you watching?” Rafa asked excitedly.

Federer waved him over to the bed where the TV was most visible. They sat there gawking at the television, cheering whenever Novak did something right. It was strange to think that the last time they met, neither showed much support of the Serb, but now they were his greatest fans, as long as he was winning.

“Since when do you cheer for Novak?” Rafa asked playfully.

“Since I realized you were right. Pro tennis isn’t ready for a wildcard to win a Slam. He’s the lesser of two evils I suppose,” Roger said in a jovial tone, all past dislike clearly set aside.

Rafa was surprised by Federer’s answer. He wasn’t expecting Roger to confess that Novak came to him with an apology, the man was much too private for that, but he wasn’t expecting Roger to speak so fondly of the hopeful champion either. It wasn’t the words he used, but the way he said them that made Nadal suspicious. He didn’t linger too long on his suspicions, the match being too good to distract himself from, but he kept aware of Federer’s behavior as they cheered on the Serb.

\-----------------------------------------------

_Once I refocused, the next two sets were a breeze. I just kept telling myself to play my game and trust my shots, like my subconscious told me the night before via dream Roger. The first set was on serve until I got a break, ending in 6-4. The next one I was fortunate enough to get two breaks early on and hold serve after that, leading to a 6-3 end to the set. It is this last set that has been giving me problems, on serve throughout. We finally got into a tiebreak for the fourth set._

_Tsonga’s nerves seemed to catch up with him (finally). The first two shots of the breaker he dumped the ball in the net. “You **can** do this,” was repeating in my mind, though surprisingly not in my own voice. I blinked and for a moment I thought I saw Federer in the stands, cheering me on, but when I looked again he was gone. I have to shake these thoughts from my head, Tsonga is about to serve. Oh nice serve, barely got it back. He hit it cross court and by the time I got there my only choice was to pop it up. Easy overhead for him._

_Okay, now it’s my serve. Time to refocus. Serve. It’s good, but he gets it back. Oh sweet, my chance at an overhead! I couldn’t help but let a **come on!** slip out after that one. Three-one. I can do this! Ugh long long long point, but he dumped it in the net at the end! How can I be so lucky? All of a sudden he’s making unforced errors like mad. Four-one, three more points to go! His first serve is called out, but he challenges. He’s wrong of course but he might as well use his challenges, the match will be over soon. Hah double fault! Let’s see him come up with a decent serve after that! We switched sides and he was mumbling angry words at himself, cursing in different languages I’m sure. He’s broken, I can tell._

_Serve. I barely get there, pop it up and…damn it’s out. Okay well, I wanted to win it on my serve anyways. Sweet now it’s my serve again. I’m serving for the championship, just two more points! Damn good rally, but I won it. One more point!! I serve, it’s in, he returns it, and then I return it and his next shot is out!!! OH MY GOD! I JUST WON THE AUSTRALIAN OPEN!!!  
_  
Djokovic fell to the ground, unable to support himself and covering his face in disbelief. All he could do was laugh. Novak looked up to his family, who were jumping up and down enthusiastically, crying tears of joy. He got up, dropped the ball from his pocket and went over to the net to shake Jo-Wilfried’s hand, no need to be disrespectful.

The Serb walks around the court in a daze, unsure of what to do with himself. He kneels down to the ground and kisses the court. Novak looked around at the crowd, throwing various possessions up to his fans. He couldn’t help but feel something was missing, and deep down he was beginning to realize it was _someone_ that was missing. His mind flashed with the memory of his dream, something that had happened several times that day, he saw Roger’s face in the crowd beaming with joy. The tennis fans were screaming, but all Novak could hear were the Swiss man’s kind words.

“I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks for believing in me,” Novak thought in reply, recalling his own words.

“I always have,” the Swiss man said. “I’m proud of you.”

Tears began to swell in Novak’s eyes. He wanted that to be true, but unfortunately it was just in his mind. A fan moved through imaginary Federer and the man disappeared, shocking Novak back to reality. They were beginning to pull out the Winner’s ceremony stage, it was real. The shiny trophy was set on a stand and Novak found he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

_Finally, it’s mine._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Novak tracks down Roger after his win.

Roger and Rafa were on their feet cheering when Novak won the final. It was just as much a victory for them as Djokovic, he saved their reputations. As the top players, they are expected to win and when they don’t the trophy is open for anyone. It was a good rivalry that the Spaniard and Swiss man had, but their domination wasn’t good for the game. And with this win, Novak stepped up into their league, the league of champions. 

“Should we text him congrats?” Roger asked excitedly. 

“I don’t know. What would you do if I won?” Rafa asked, equally unsure. 

“I’m usually on court next to you,” Roger joked. 

“Right. Maybe we just wait for things to settle down, he hasn’t even got the trophy yet,” Rafa said, turning his attention back to the television where the trophy ceremony was about to start. Neither of them had an established friendship with Novak, they were more like friendly acquaintances at best, so they didn’t know how to treat him. He may be a cocky asshole sometimes on court, or with the press, but he had these moments where he was so damn likable that you couldn’t help but forget ever wanting to bash in his skull after a match. 

\--------------------------------------- 

He had the trophy sitting atop the armoire in the hotel room, safe from the wandering hands of his family and friends who had taken over his room in celebration. It had been nearly two hours since he had left the stadium and the congratulatory phone calls and texts were pouring in. Every time his phone buzzed, Novak quickly flipped it open to see who it was from and was several times disappointed not to see Federer’s name. Rafa hadn’t even texted him, though when they spoke at the pub the Spaniard seemed pretty confident in him which is nearly as good as congratulations. Novak didn’t even know what he was expecting from the Swiss man. He felt a fluttering in his chest for a moment, thinking back to the moment where Roger said he was proud of him, but his heart sank when he remembered that it wasn’t real. He knew not to expect that from Roger. Not only was he a proud man who wouldn’t easily admit such a thing, but they never really got along until the day before yesterday. Still, Novak hoped for a text, even if it was just a gloating sentence about how he had practically fed Novak the victory. Even that would be better than no recognition at all. 

Novak decided to seek out Roger; he just had to see him again before they left. It would be a challenge getting his whole camp out of the room, but Novak was determined. He claimed to be physically exhausted from the long match in the unrelenting Australian heat, and the slew of press he dealt with after. They seemed disheartened, but agreed to leave when he claimed that all he wanted to do was stare at his trophy and sleep. Once they had left Novak contemplated taking a nap, he was actually quite exhausted, but he had already made a plan and would stick to it. Novak wondered up to the sixth floor where he had met Roger the other night. He brought the red folder with him, using it as his excuse to stop by. Surely Roger had other copies, but it was a better excuse than ‘hey I dropped by so you could congratulate me appropriately…so go ahead.’ 

When he knocked on the door, Novak heard two distinct voices and shuffling toward the door. For a moment, Novak feared that Roger had checked out and he was knocking on the door of strangers who might be angry at his intrusion. To his relief, Roger open the door and looked downright shocked to see him. 

“Oh, Novak,” he said awkwardly before stepping back and letting the other man into the room. “What are you doing here?” 

“Um,” Novak started, suddenly questioning if he should’ve come. “I, uh, wanted to give this back to you,” he said, handing over the red folder. 

“Oh, it’s just a copy. You could keep it if you want,” Roger said, more comfortable now that the surprise had worn away. 

“It’s better if I give it back, I’ve memorized it anyways. I wouldn’t want the wrong person to come across it,” Novak said, actually managing to convince himself with his words. He didn’t want his camp to come across it, or a fellow player. He could be accused of cheating, and his reputation would be ruined if people thought he needed help to win a tournament. His Grand Slam win would mean nothing if people didn't think he earned it fair and square. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, nodding his head in agreement and taking the folder back, setting it on the table. 

“Who you are talking to?” said a man's voice in the other part of the room, not visible from the living room area they were standing in. Novak recognized the accent as Spanish, but couldn’t quite place who it was from just the voice. Federer smiled and walked toward the other part of the room, the bedroom, waving for him to follow. When he turned the corner and saw the bed, Nadal was laying there watching TV. Novak looked over to the other side of the bed where there was a clear indention where Federer must’ve been sitting. Suddenly Novak was concerned, was he interrupting something? 

“Novak!” Rafa said happily, scrambling out of the bed to give him a hug. “You were so good today! Congratulations!” 

Novak was a bit overwhelmed by Rafa’s excitement, but grateful nonetheless. Nadal's praise meant almost as much as Federer's would, only Rafa offered it more readily. When the Spaniard finally pulled away he told Novak that they were just about to pop in a movie, a tennis themed movie, and invited him to join. The Serb felt kind of awkward, but agreed. He still hadn’t gotten proper congratulations from Federer, or even acknowlegement of his victory, and he wanted to stick around long enough to give him the opportunity. They all climbed onto the bed, which was luckily a humongous king-size. Roger reclaimed his spot on the left side of the bed and Rafa moved to the center, leaving Novak the right side. It was a tight fit, but they all managed to lay out pretty comfortably. 

Novak soon found that the movie of choice was Wimbledon, with Kirsten Dunst and Paul Bettany playing professional tennis players. It was entertaining, especially how terrible the actors were at playing tennis. For normal people, their form was quite good, but compared to the three men watching the movie, it was a joke and a very funny one at which they all enjoyed poking fun. The tennis part was great fun to watch, but the romantic bits were dull in comparison. During a particularly long scene with the main couple making dreamy eyes at each other from across the room, Rafa fell asleep, snoring lightly. 

Novak looked at him strangely. Should they wake him up? Federer noticed his glance and answered it with amusement, “He does that sometimes. Uses up all his energy at once then crashes later.” It sounded reasonable, Rafa was always high-energy when Novak had seen him, during matches and at tennis events, but he had to sleep sometime. After listening to Rafa’s relaxed heavy breathing, Novak felt the need to close his eyes as well. He fought it off as long as he could, not wanting to fall asleep in Federer’s room…again. But eventually sleep overtook him… 

\---------------------------------------- \--- 

Federer awoke in the early a.m. hours when he felt Nadal shifting around. The Spaniard seemed to be trying to get out of bed without waking anyone, but he was stuck between them. Roger took pity on him and sat up so Rafa could climb past him. “G’mornin, Fed” he said happily. Roger just grunted in response, watching as Rafa sprinted toward the bathroom. When the Spaniard returned he was full of energy, quite unlike his Swiss friend who was laying flat again trying to get more sleep. 

“We should go for a run,” Rafa suggested, jogging in place. 

“At 4:30? You’re crazy,” Roger mumbled, cuddling into his pillow. 

“Maybe. I see you later, Fed. I go pack up my room,” the Spaniard said, his English not flowing easily so early in the morning. “You play AMRO?” 

“No. Pacific Life is my next. You’ll be there?” Roger asked, sitting up slightly. 

“Yes. I will see you then, okay?” said Rafa with a smile. 

“See you then,” Roger agreed, collapsing back into bed once his friend had left. 

Novak had spread out some since Rafa got up, taking up more of the bed, but not quite intruding on Federer’s space. Roger questioned if he should wake up Novak. He might’ve been comfortable sleeping there when it was the three of them, but just the two of them was different, less innocent somehow. But the new champion looked so peaceful lying there, probably dreaming about the victory that was already his. Ideally he should’ve woken the Serb when Nadal was leaving, to take away some of the awkwardness, but now there was no avoiding the strange situation. Roger decided to let him wake up on his own, trusting his light sleeping habits to wake him as soon as the other man stirred. 

It didn’t take long for Novak to wake up, thanks to his phone springing to life on the bedside table, making an awful hollow buzzing noise against the wood. He jumped up and grabbed it, silencing the offending noise. His quick movements shook the bed enough to wake Roger, who began to stir groggily. Novak panicked for a second, having to remind himself why he was still wearing his after-matches sweats and more importantly, why he was in bed with Roger Federer. 

“Where’s Rafa?” Novak asked, noticing the absence of the energetic Spaniard. 

“Packing. He had an early flight to Majorca,” Roger said simply. He wasn’t sure what to say to the younger man, who was obviously freaking out but making a valiant attempt to be casual. 

“Well I guess I’d better go too,” Novak said, gathering his things quickly. He was almost to the door when Federer stopped him. “Wait,” he said softly, and there was a hand on his arm holding him in place. It wasn’t hard or painful, just insistent, begging him to listen. He turned to face the man who stopped him. Roger’s eyes locked with his, willing him to stay for a moment longer. 

“I never got the chance to congratulate you,” Roger said with a smile, though Novak could tell he was forcing the words, not because he didn’t mean them, but because it wasn’t like him to often give praise. “That was quite a comeback you pulled off yesterday. Not many players could fight back from a set down in a Grand Slam final.” 

Novak hadn’t thought of it that way. When he lost the first set, he just thought ‘great, now I have to play a fourth set.’ He never considered losing. “Thanks, it took me awhile to find my game,” Novak admitted. 

“I knew you could win if you trusted your game,” Roger said encouragingly, a bashful blush tingeing his cheeks. Novak smiled as his mind flashed to the Roger in the stands, encouraging him with words so perfectly similar that Nole had to restrain himself from repeating the lines in his dream aloud . It wasn’t until Roger noticed the glazed over look in his eyes and spoke again that Novak returned to reality. “You’re one of us now,” he said kindly, leaving Novak to wonder what ‘us’ he was a part of now. 

Novak earned a place among the greats as a Grand Slam champion, he won that honor yesterday, but Nole couldn’t help but feel Federer was referring to another group as well, one perhaps even more exclusive, one he might’ve joined last night. Was he part of the Nadal/Federer group now? Were they actually accepting him? Novak smiled genuinely, sensing Federer had said all he needed to, he asked, “See you at Pacific Life?” 

Roger smiled, not at all surprised Djokovic knew he would be there. It was common for players to know his schedule, sometimes even plan around it. Not everybody dreamed of playing Federer in the finals with prize money on the line, just Rafa. “See you there,” he said, opening the door and watching the Serb leave, closing the door behind him and leaning against it for several moments. 

“It's too early,” Roger said to himself, gathering his belongings and stuffing them into a suitcase. "Nothing to do but pack," he mumbled as he shoved various items into his many bags with little care. He could organize it better once he got home. For now, he needed to hurry so he wouldn’t miss his flight. 

\---------------------------------------- \------------- 

Novak spent the next week doing interviews and press. The interviewers were acting like it was a big surprise when he won, several reporters admitting they didn’t think he had it in him. It was kind of disheartening, hearing people have such doubts about his still-young career, some of them experts too. There were bright moments in the interviews though, some of them of his own creation. In nearly every interview his match with Federer was mentioned, and he couldn’t help but smirk. He wasn’t being arrogant, like the reporters would surely assume, he was smirking because they were trying to get a reaction out of him. They wanted him to say something awful about Federer like he usually does, everyone on the tour knows them to be at odds, but Novak offered only subtle praise and polite sympathy. 

He made an effort not to be too nice, knowing that would give something away to the media. The best part of being on good terms with Roger now is that nobody knows. There is something brilliant about a secret between friends, perhaps no greater fun. Just knowing something personal that the intrusive reporters didn't know was quite satisfying, especially since they were the ones throwing out headlines like 'the slam champion we never saw coming.' Wasn't he a more likely champion than Tsonga? How did they even come to that conclusion knowing the two finalists? Once the last of the interviews were completed, Novak could finally go home to Serbia for a week before flying off to the next tournament site. The flight was tiresome and dull, but Novak couldn’t fall asleep. He texted Andy Murray and hoped that his friend wasn’t too busy to chat. They didn’t get much of a chance to say goodbye before heading out their separate ways and Novak felt a pang of guilt. Andy was among those he kicked out of his room so he could sneak off to visit Federer. 

“Hey mate. You finally done with press?” was the Brit’s response to his casual hello. 

“Yeah. Tennis Channel this morning was my last. How’s London?” 

“Cool and rainy. Refreshing after Melbourne. You heading back to Monaco or Serbia?” 

“Serbia. It’s Djordje’s bday soon so we’re celebrating before I leave for AMRO.” 

“Nice interview. You didn’t fall into their trap, for once.” 

Novak looked at his phone questioningly, as if it had made up that last message. What was Murray talking about? They already talked about his interviews. 

“So you’re playing AMRO? We should meet up a few days before to hit.” 

Novak stared at his phone again. That was the response he had expected, but what was with the other one? Novak scrolled through his messages and looked it over again, noticing this time it wasn’t from Murray, it was from Roger. Novak couldn’t help but smile, even though he didn’t know what Roger was talking about. 

“Do I usually fall into their trap?” he responded quickly, heavily considering adding a smiley face. 

“Almost always,” came floating back to him. Novak understood now, Roger was talking about the reporters from earlier, and how they tried to get a negative response out of him. 

“I never noticed they did that before today,” he wrote honestly. The press always liked him because he was known to say outrageous things, but Novak never considered that they set up those opportunities. He thought it was all him and his ill-mannered bluntness. 

“Yeah. You seem to be their favorite target,” he wrote in a seemingly playful way. He wasn’t scolding the Serb, just saying what nobody else did. 

“Not anymore. I’m nice from now on,” Novak joked. He could try, but that probably wouldn’t happen considering how much effort he had to put into filtering himself for the interviews this week. 

“Not too nice. Then you wouldn’t be Novak :)” 

Djokovic grinned. He may be a jerk sometimes, but Federer didn't seem to mind, as long as it’s not directed at him. 

“Maybe I just be nice to you =]” Novak replied, finally giving into the urge to add a smiley. Federer did it first after all. 

“What fun would that be?” Roger replied, making Novak smile. 

When Roger was no longer available to text, Novak finally replied to Andy, who had been waiting almost half an hour for a response. “Sure thing. I get there on Wednesday. Text me then.”     



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship growing at the Pacific Life Open

After their text conversation on the plane, Roger and Novak found something to talk about each day. It was little things, usually starting with a generic “hey what’s up” or “how are you?” Novak told him about his brother’s birthday and their silly family traditions. Federer spoke of his new hitting partner, a hot headed junior who reminded him greatly of the Serb when he was younger. Roger was sure he hadn’t used his cell phone this much in one month ever, or enjoyed texting so much. Mirka occasionally got suspicious of his recent phone activity, glaring at him as he typed away during sponsorship meetings or checked his phone during a practice session. She dared to ask him once who he was talking to all the time. Roger lied. He told her it was Rafa rather than Novak, whom the public still believes he greatly dislikes. She accepted that answer happily, probably relieved that he wasn’t chatting up some girl. Roger felt guilty for lying, not that talking to Novak should be any different than talking to Rafa, but somehow it _was_ different.

They didn’t see each other again until the Pacific Life Open. Roger was in the player’s lounge on the highest level of the stadium, overlooking court one. He found Nadal almost immediately and they ordered drinks together, non-alcoholic of course, they had matches to play the next day. Andy Roddick joined them with fresh Davis Cup match stories for their enjoyment. The American team always seems to be up to some mischief, no doubt due to troublemakers Andy Roddick and Mike Bryan. Novak walked in with Andy Murray at his side, an aura of smugness surrounding them as they spoke quietly in a very cliquish way. Novak eventually noticed his new friend sitting across the room, catching his eye briefly and offering a sly smirk. Roddick noticed the gesture, commenting irritably, “Of all the people to win a Slam, did it have to be that arrogant prick?”

Federer smiled to himself, but nodded in agreement, as far as Andy knows they hate each other.

“His attitude is off, but the play is there,” Rafa added, taking a neutral viewpoint.

Apart from that meeting, Roger only saw the Serb in passing. They had agreed to lay off the texting during mutually-entered tournaments, not wanting friendship to get in the way of competition. It wasn’t until the quarterfinal round that they met in the locker room. Roger had just found out that his opponent, Tommy Haas, had withdrawn upon arrival that morning citing injury. Roger ran into his good friend Stanislas Wawrinka as he was packing up his things to leave.

“Roger, hello!” his compatriot said brightly.

“Hey Rink,” Federer replied. “You playing today?”

“Yeah, I’ve had a good draw so far…” Wawrinka said, nervously explaining how he made it so far. He was not nearly as talented on court as Roger, his occasional doubles partner. Roger almost always made the finals and Stanislas usually only made it to the quarters, his current round in this tournament, though occasionally making appearances in the semis. It was strange talking to Roger about tournaments sometimes, how could he be appropriately confident if Roger was still competing?

“It takes more than a good draw to get to the quarters, Rink. You’re doing good,” Roger said, effectively restoring his friend’s confidence.

“Thanks. Have you played your quarters yet?” Wawrinka asked, knowing Federer was scheduled to play that day.

“Speaking of luck, Haas withdrew this morning. I’m through to the semis,” Roger said, as casually as he could manage. He knew his friend had fought hard to get to the quarters, whereas he had coasted, and now Roger is lucky enough to get a bye into the semifinals.

“Lucky. So you’re free for the day?” Stanislas asked, slightly jealous.

“Yes. I don’t really know what to do with myself,” Roger joked.

“You could watch my match, if you’d like. Might come across one of us later in the tourney,” Wawrinka suggested. He knew Roger rarely attended other player’s matches apart from in a team setting, but it was worth asking since he didn’t seem to have other plans.

“Sure, sounds good,” Roger agreed. “I may watch from the lounge, though. It’s a bit hot outside.”

“Great,” Wawrinka said happily, knowing he would need all the support he could get.

“Who are you playing?” Roger asked. He hadn’t looked at that side of the draw yet, knowing it was pointless to predict results until the last round.

“Djokovic,” Wawrinka said simply. Roger nodded, feeling flushed all of a sudden. Stanislas’ coach pulled him away to go over last minute strategy, leaving Roger awkwardly hovering in the locker room.

“Roger,” a friendly voice said from behind him, a firm hand resting on his shoulder.

“Ah, Novak,” Roger said, turning around to find the Serb smiling brightly.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, still smiling. “I heard about Haas, knee injury.”

“Yeah, they just told me,” Roger said, suddenly feeling out of place. He didn’t really have a reason to be hanging out in the locker room anymore.

Nalbandian’s camp came billowing through the room, nudging Novak and Federer into a small tunnel of empty lockers to the side, conveniently hidden from the reporters who had just entered the room, desperate to ask Nalbandian about his match.

“Good thing they can’t see us here, our secret friendship would be ruined,” Novak joked. Roger smiled, but was distracted by other things, like how close he was standing to the Serb now and the crisp smell of soap that was radiating from the younger man.

“I haven’t seen you around much,” Novak said lightly. “Except that day in the lounge. I was going to come say hello, but I didn’t think Murray would fit in.”

“Why not?” Federer asked, knowing Novak was looking for him to ask that question.

“Well if I joined you guys, then it would be all the Grand Slam champions here at one table…and Murray. It seems you’re only friends with us Slam winners,” Novak said with a smirk.

“That’s not true!” Roger said defensively, but the look in his eyes said he was joking.

“Really, who do you know well that doesn’t have a Slam?” Novak asked, moving closer with a competitive smirk.

“Um,” Roger thought carefully. Surely he knew someone that didn’t have a Slam. Just as he was about to say Wawrinka, Novak spoke again, “Besides your compatriots.”

That made things more difficult for the number one player. He said hello to almost every player on the tour, whenever he saw them, but that was being polite, not friendship. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, they didn’t try to get close to him. When he drew a blank, Roger admitted, “Okay so maybe I don’t have many non-Slam friends, but that isn’t my fault. It’s them who don’t talk to me.”

“I know,” Novak replied simply, smiling devilishly. “They’re all intimidated by the great Federer. That is, until they snatch a big one from him.”

Roger shook his head at the younger man, wondering how someone can be so insightful and arrogant at the same time. “Is that what it is?” Roger asked rhetorically, eyeing the Serb suspiciously.

“So what are your big plans for your free day?” Novak asked interestedly.

“Actually I have been invited to watch your match,” Roger said snidely, knowing not even the clever Novak would be expecting that.

“Oh, really? And you actually accepted. How odd,” the Serb said playfully.

“How is that odd?” Roger asked confusedly.

“You never watch matches live,” Novak said, only realizing afterwards what a creeper he sounded like. "Everyone knows that," he added quickly. 

“Maybe not. But since it fits my schedule so nicely I thought I might as well since I'm here,” Roger said lightly, noticing the embarrassed flush on his friend’s cheeks. Roger wasn’t bothered that Novak knew his habits, most players on tour did. For some reason he just attracted that kind of attention, the I-want-to-know-every-little-thing-he-does kind of attention. “It’s not often I can watch a match where no matter what my friend wins,” Roger said jokingly, making Novak smile proudly, only dampened slightly by Roger’s lack of assumption that he’ll win.

“True. I bet Stanislas will be wishing he hadn’t invited you later, I’m feeling a total shut-out,” Novak said confidently. Roger frowned for a moment at the Serb’s obvious arrogance, but reminded himself that it was just confidence taken way too far. It didn’t take long into their friendship for the number one player to realize that it was a front that Novak put up, to keep himself mentally tough for matches, and for some reason it seemed to double around Roger, making him twice as annoyingly arrogant.

Roger found himself less bothered by his friend’s smugness, now that he knew _why_ the Serb acted that way. Similar accusations had been made toward Federer by players on tour, though the Swiss man certainly had a lot more reason to act that way, dozens of trophies worth of reasons. Novak startled the older man from his thoughts with a question out of the blue. “Have you been to the trainer today?” Novak asked in a worried tone.

Roger was just as stunned by the man’s concern as he was by the sudden question. “I stopped in for a short visit before my match, which didn’t actually happen. How did you know?”

“I smell that cream they always use, the one that burns,” Novak said, sniffing in the air around him.

“Yeah. They put it all over my back,” Roger said, as casually as he could manage, considering he had just been told he smells like Icy Hot.

“Are you hurt?” Novak asked, still seeming unusually anxious about Federer’s health.

“I hope not. It’s just a bit of a twinge,” Roger said honestly. It had been bothering him for the past couple of days, but it was more of a discomfort than pain.

“Well I hope it gets better so we can play in the finals,” Novak said with his overbearing confidence obviously still intact.

“Right,” Roger said awkwardly. “Let’s hope.” He wasn’t used to players wishing him good health. Other than Rafa, most players would be wishing him an awful disease that took him off the tour permanently. He may be regarded as one of the most likeable guys on tour, but that doesn’t mean they like to see him on court.

Novak’s manager started saying his name loudly, forcing him out of hiding. “I guess it’s about warm up time. Will you be in Wawrinka’s box?” Novak asked, referring to allotted space in the stands that each player got for their friends and family, or coaches and managers.

“No, from the lounge,” Roger replied, wondering vaguely why Novak wanted to know.

“Cool,” Novak said, gathering his stuff to leave. Roger reached out his hand, preparing for a good luck handshake, but the Serb pulled him into a hug. “Good luck,” Roger said awkwardly as the younger man briefly held onto him with his tennis backpack dangerously close to hitting Roger in the face.

“Thanks, Fed,” Novak said kindly before walking away quickly to acknowledge his panicking manager, leaving Roger to wonder when Novak had adopted that nickname.

\--------------------------------------------------------

Roger was amazed at the effort the Serbian was putting forth. He had an awful habit of playing lazy when his opponent was beneath him skill-wise, and even then he had a bored persona that flipped on— yawning whenever possible like he’d rather be sleeping, and drawling his words rudely. That player wasn’t here today. Novak was respectable, likeable, even applauding a few excellent shots by his opponent. Federer’s one complaint with him was that every time he made an awesome shot, the Serb would do his “come on!” as usual, but instead of looking over at his opponent, he would look up to the players’ lounge, where he knew Roger was sitting. Luckily the commentators were clueless. They claimed that “Djokovic looks like he’s ready to take a break from this heat, grab an icy drink from the player’s lounge, eh?” They couldn’t see Roger through the tinted windows of the lounge, but somehow Novak knew exactly where he was sitting, and if not for the shadowed glass they would have made eye contact each time the Serb looked up.

The match was fairly short, Novak had won easily in straight sets like he predicted, though Wawrinka had managed to take him to a tiebreak for the first. Roger missed the last bit of the match, but he watched it on his phone as he rode to a dinner-meeting with his camp. They didn’t mention the player’s box again, though Novak obviously took a long glance up there after he won. Roger felt a flutter inside when he saw this, knowing that Novak won that match for him.

Roger reluctantly told his camp about his back problems, which were not aided much by the trainer’s treatment. It was concerning for the group, considering something like that could easily lose him the tournament, it was only best two sets out of three. There was no recovery time, like there was in the Majors. After that unpleasant news, Roger felt freed from a little burden. If he didn’t win this tournament, at least he’d know part of that was due to his ailing back. By the time dessert came around Roger was quite happy, knowing that this stressful meeting that he was dreading all day actually went alright, tentatively admitting to himself that Novak might have something to do with his good mood as well.

As soon as Roger thought the Serb’s name, his phone buzzed in his slacks as if on cue. Roger hesitantly dug in his pocket for the cell, pulling it out smoothly, but keeping it hidden under the table. He daringly flipped it open and read it while the others were enjoying dessert. “If Stan wanted to win he shouldn’t have given me an audience worth impressing =]” Novak wrote playfully. Roger smiled widely, though quickly flattened his features out into an indifferent stare when his manager looked over at him expectantly, apparently he had asked something…

Roger couldn’t send a response until he was in the car going back to the hotel. It was just Mirka with him in the taxi and she was chatting with her mother on the phone. Even though his girlfriend was distracted, Roger still hid his phone behind his leg to type, furthest away from Mirka’s casually prying eyes. “Hey rule-breaker, at least he made you play a tiebreaker =P”

Mirka wrapped up her conversation, which was getting a little heated anyway. She turned to Roger and asked him again who he had been talking to, knowing that he almost never texted other players during tournaments. “Tiger” Roger replied, referring to his good friend Tiger Woods. “He’s just trash talking. Has a golf game tomorrow and he thinks he will do better in his then I will in mine.”

It was a believable lie, and Mirka seemed to happily accept it. She liked his friendship with Tiger, especially liked it as his manager. The story seemed to entertain people, two great players of different sports coming together, supporting each other, appearing together in public. Roger was almost wishing he hadn’t mentioned it to her, considering she had that look on her face like she was planning something, probably some shared sponsorship deal where they would have to do photo shoots together or make commercials. It wasn’t that he didn’t like those things, they brought in just as much money as these smaller tournaments, if not more, but it was annoying that they couldn’t even have a conversation without her switching into manager mode and him…lying to her about a secret friend. Some relationship they had.

“6-2 in the second makes up for it = **/** ” Novak replied. Roger was dying to look at his phone, to read the message, but Mirka was watching him now, calculating. There were only so many times he could lie without her catching on, should he risk it again so soon?

Eventually they got back to the hotel, and Roger all but ran to his room. He was thankful he had this retreat, away from the prying eyes of the world and…his girlfriend? Roger wondered vaguely when he felt the need to have a place away from her, but decided it was long before this thing with Novak, so he felt nearly no guilt in hurriedly reading, laughing and replying; though he promised himself he would keep the conversation short, since it was breaking the rules.  
  
\-------------------------------------------------  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The post-match interviews in this chapter are real quotes from the 2008 Pacific Life tournament. They are, of course, just relevant snippets from the interviews and the questions are not necessarily in the same order they were originally asked. I try to tie in real interviews/matches whenever I can, makes it seem like this could actually be happening. :)
> 
> Interviews can be found here: http://www.tennisnews.com/exclusive.php?pID=24140 and http://www.tennis-x.com/story/2008-03-23/h.php and http://www.tennis-x.com/story/2008-03-23/k.php

Roger found himself on the losing end of a semifinals match for the second tournament in a row. This time losing to a less respectable player, someone he typically beat with ease. It came down to his back and the twinge of pain he felt each time he served, volleyed, hit a forehand, hit a backhand, and worst of all when he dared hit an overhead in the third game. After that he had to call a trainer, something he almost never did, especially in smaller tournaments. He used the full injury time-out, having his back rubbed with pain creams and the muscles relaxed...a little bit. It proved not to be enough. Federer may have a winning record against Mardy Fish, a former top twenty player who has recently sunk in the ranks, but the other player is competent and that is all it took to beat Roger today.

The press wasn’t nearly as hard on him this time or maybe there were just less of them since it wasn’t a Major. Pacific Life doesn’t get nearly as much coverage. Roger almost considered sending Mirka or his publicist to answer questions, but after a hot shower he was feeling better and wanted to show them that he was just as graceful a loser as a winner. Roger had at least finished out his match rather than withdrawing or retiring, which was always disappointing for players and fans alike.

The press conference was quick and painless, apart from a few awkward questions that he had to weave his way around.

_Q: Was it as surprising for you as it was for us?  
RF: Well, I guess so. I don't know how much it is for you guys. _

_Q: Very.  
RF: I've had a great record against him, you know, always had sort of controlled matches against him, but today was different. He came out playing very, very well. _

_Q: Are you well, Roger?  
RF: I'm well, yeah. How are you? _

Roger knew they were referring to his spout with food poisoning prior to the Aussie Open, and perhaps assuming his back injury was somehow related, but he refused to be _that_ guy who blames his losses on silly things like that, even if it was a significant factor.

_Q: Can there be a situation almost where your match sharpness, when you miss a match, say perhaps you needed the match against Haas?  
RF: I was a little bit deflated yesterday. I was ready to play against Tommy. I think it would have really given me great rhythm if I were to win against him and come into have met him and come into the semis today. _

_Q: Will you go right to Miami?  
RF: Pretty much, yeah. Haven't booked my ticket yet. Wasn't planning on leaving today, but we'll see now. _

Of course Roger had planned to stay until the end, winning the tournament. His hotel was booked that way, as was his plane ticket, though he wouldn’t discuss it here. It was never a good idea to let the press know your travel plans; they always seem to show up at inconvenient times.

_Q: When did you find out Tommy was out? Was it in the morning early?  
RF: Around noon, maybe. Yeah, I mean, just sort of waking up and seeing, feeling good, and that's when I got the news, basically. _

_Q: What you did you do for the rest of the day since you didn't have the match yesterday?  
RF: Well, I came over to practice. Not much. _

He lied, a habit that seemed to be catching on with him lately. It was a necessary lie, he couldn’t exactly tell them that he watched the other match without them asking where he was sitting and him saying in the players’ lounge because they obviously would’ve taken pictures of him if he were in the crowd and them realizing that every other second Novak was looking up at _him_ and then their precious little secret would be blown.

_Q: What are your thoughts about the final tomorrow between with Fish against Djokovic?  
RF: Sure, interesting match, you know. I mean, Novak also having outstanding performance against Rafa today, you know. Also is probably comfortable in the scoring line, so it should be entertaining. _

Roger fought hard to suppress the urge to say something  supportive about Novak, maybe even go as far as yelling out 'go Novak' or something equally out of character and obnoxious. Once again the young Serb was in the position to vindicate his loss, and win like he was unable to.

\-----------------------------------------------

Novak was at his own press conference when he heard the news of Federer’s loss. It was sudden and in question form, asking how he felt about it. The match wasn’t yet finished but it was close enough that all Mardy had to do was win a game. Novak felt his heart skip a beat when he heard of Roger’s semifinals downfall, wondering instantly how and why it happened.

_Q: This is a maybe/if question: Have you played Mardy Fish before, and how have you done?  
ND: US Open 2006. _

_  
Q: You beat him?  
ND: Yes. It was a really tough match._

Novak inwardly shook at the question, knowing they wouldn’t ask unless it was almost sure that Fish would be his opponent. Inwardly distressed, Novak continued answering the unpleasant questions.

_Q: It's 5-1 in the second. Does that surprise you?  
ND: It does a little bit. You know, I think his style of the game suits to Roger, but obviously Roger is not playing well today for whatever reason. But, of course, you can't play always well. I think for Roger it is not so good that he didn't play quarterfinals and he didn't have a tough match. You know, Fish is ready for it. He's obviously deserving it. You know, he plays better. _

Novak hardly even knew what he said to the reporters, hoping it was more than the stream of nonsense he heard from himself. It surprised him more than a little bit. He had been expecting Roger to own this tournament, possibly even beat him. How could he lose?

_Q: Let's say Fish does close it out. Would you feel a bit more confident playing Mardy Fish than -- not saying you wouldn't feel confident playing Roger, but more confident play Fish than playing Roger?  
ND: Well, probably if you play No. 1 player of the world in the finals, in the finals of any tournament, I think it's much tougher than to play against somebody who has not been in so many finals of the major events. _

_Q: How would you qualify your relationship with Roger Federer at this point?_

Whoa. That question hit Novak like a ton of bricks. It was the same question he asked himself almost daily these past few weeks. He wasn’t even sure himself and here they were demanding an answer on something they knew nothing about. It was an innocent question, one he’s gotten many times before, but it was different now. He couldn’t tell them that his heart races every time he hears his phone buzz, hoping it is Roger with his cleverness and smiley faces. He couldn’t tell them that he nearly lost the ability to breathe when he was standing near Roger in the locker room. He couldn’t explain the way he melted after each point with Wawrinka, every time he reminded himself that the number one player in the world was there watching him. He could hardly admit these things to himself, how the hell did these people expect him to define them?

_ND: Well, we never had any problems. I mean, we are not, I don't know, friends. We don't have such a great friendship, but, of course, I respect his results and him as a sportist, so all credit to that._

It was simple and to the point, exactly what they wanted to hear. It was also a lie, but a lie was better than telling too much of the truth. It had started off being a secret because that was fun, their little joke on everybody, but something had changed in the last week, making it necessary to hide. It was getting too personal to let others see.

Novak didn’t dare text Roger after his loss. He hadn’t learned to deal with that side of Roger yet. It was one thing to have beaten the man himself, and drunkenly wander up to his room to apologize, but when it was somebody else who did the beating, someone that Novak would be playing the very next day, it was different. If he was being honest with himself, Novak wanted to beg Roger to come to his match the next day, but he couldn’t do it, not when his pride was at stake. Sure Roger had seen the less confident side of him briefly, but Novak wasn’t comfortable enough being that vulnerable, especially with the man he was growing to respect so much.

 ---------------------------------------------------

“Did you hear what that little shit said about you?” Allison spat angrily, knowing Roger knew nothing of it. She was a publicist, the Spin Doctor as they liked to call her, always spinning things to make Roger look good. Apparently this was something she couldn’t spin. “We work so hard to show Roger as the nicest guy on tour and then this prick won’t even call them friends.”

“I thought I _was_ the nicest guy on tour,” Roger said earnestly, wondering why that image needs to be molded of him. It’s not far from the truth. Roger didn’t even know who she was complaining about until she tossed her phone over, revealing a video of Novak doing a press conference. His words cut Roger like a knife to the heart. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true, or that him and Novak had essentially planned it this way. All that mattered is that Roger felt sick to his stomach when he heard they way Novak bashed him. It was subtle and polite, but wicked and punishing too. He spoke with coldness that Roger couldn’t imagine the Serb feeling toward him, but he did it so well. Was it a lie? Or was Federer getting played?

“He’s right, Allison. We are not friends,” Roger said after composing himself.

“It’s the way he said it. Like he doesn’t even want to be,” she replied. It’s the same thing he was telling himself, but at least Roger had the knowledge that Novak said he’d be less than nice to Federer in the press. Roger had actually encouraged him to do so. It was gut-wrenching, not knowing what to believe. The hardest part was that Novak hadn’t texted him yet, not out of worry or even pity. He was silent.

\------------------------------------------

Roger decided to stay in town and honor his commitment to the hotel and airport. They probably wouldn’t have minded much if he switched things around, but it was more trouble than convenience. There was something else plaguing Roger’s mind now, begging him to stay until it is resolved. Ever since he saw that clip of Novak, and their communication had abruptly ended, he needed to know where they stood. It was a difficult thing for Roger, to talk about feelings and relationships. That is part of the reason he is still with Mirka, because he doesn’t know how not to be anymore.

The morning after the semifinals day, Roger awoke with a purpose. He refused to mope around in his hotel room all day, like he had seriously considered doing yesterday. Roger’s plan was to go to the finals match and find a way to talk to Novak. As soon as he got out of the shower there was a knock on his door. It was Mirka, asking him to join her for another day of sightseeing. Roger said he wasn’t up for doing much of anything, trying his best to sound horribly disappointed in himself and mildly depressed, which wasn’t exactly inaccurate. She accepted his story, like she always did and went off on her own. When Roger was sure Mirka had gone, he snuck out and took a cab to the stadium. He used his player’s pass to get into the lounge, which was almost empty at this point in the tournament. Those left were the women finalists and doubles players, whose finals matches weren’t until later that day. Roger ordered a drink and some food, casually setting up an area overlooking court one, like he had done for the quarterfinal match. This time he brought a book to make him look less suspicious, like he wasn’t stalking Djokovic, not that anyone there was looking much.

It was another easy win for Novak, this time dropping a set after being on serve throughout it. The win Roger had expected, but he didn’t think Novak would still be sending those lingering glances up to the player’s lounge after points. It was more dangerous now, since he was one of the few players in the room and if the bartender wanted to he could tell the commentators all about him being there. Roger was relieved to see Ana Ivanovic in the room, a women’s finalist no doubt, and most importantly, Novak’s friend and compatriot. She seemed completely unaware that there was a match going on, let alone Novak’s, but her presence calmed the Swiss man. If any questions came up, she was their scapegoat. Not that Roger even knew if he and Novak were on the same team anymore. It was silly to worry over the friendship of a man Roger formerly despised. If he was ever perfectly honest with the reporters, Roger would have said worse things about the Serb in the past than the man said about him yesterday; but Roger had grown fond of the younger player, taken him under his wing. Suddenly Novak Djokovic mattered to Federer and he was determined to figure out if that was a mistake.

Roger dug through his stuff for his cell phone, locating Novak’s number and texting him as casually as a man so emotionally disheveled could, “What an excellent match to watch live. ;)” Roger hoped that Novak saw it soon, before he left for the hotel at least and understood what he meant. To his delight, Roger saw Novak rummaging through his large tennis bag, emerging with something quite small and black. It was his phone and from what Roger could tell, he was happy to see the message. Quickly, he wrote back, “You’re here! My my, what did I do to deserve such an honor?” It was a joke and Federer knew instantly that they were okay. Novak was chuckling to himself, obviously very satisfied with his witty response. It was a dangerous move, pulling out his phone on court and reacting to its contents. The cameras were focused in on him closely, not close enough to read his messages, but for everybody to know exactly what he is doing. The commentators were abuzz with suggestions ranging from Novak texting one of his rumored girlfriends to his parents who had stayed in Serbia with his siblings. Roger smiled, listening intently to the TV at the bar, listing off all the possibilities of who the new champion was texting so animatedly, none of them guessing the current number one player in the world.

\---------------------------------------------------

Pretty much the moment the tournament ended, Roger texted him, following their preset rules exactly. There was a brilliant fluttery feeling that filled his stomach as he read the words. Roger was here. Not by accident or because of a cancelled match. Roger came here to see him, to support him. If he wasn’t so tired, Novak would actually consider the option his mind was shouting at him, to run up the several flights of stairs to where Federer was probably sitting and give him a big hug. Instead he looked up to the lounge, like he had been doing unconsciously throughout the match, and smiled genuinely. He texted back quickly, before his mind became too exhausted for clever words. The reply didn’t come back as fast as he had hoped, leaving him to wonder if Federer was on the move, walking away to the parking lot or leaving in a cab already. The Serb readied himself for the trophy ceremony, anxious to get it over with, but not wanting to rush through it and be disrespectful. He was still trying to build a fan base, a difficult task for someone thought to be both a promising player and an asshole.

The ceremony was a blur, but the fans were cheering and the men in suits were still smiling, meaning he had not seriously offended either group. It was progress from the Australian Open, where nearly a fourth of the fans were still against him after the finals match. It wasn’t so much that they disliked him, they just liked Tsonga better. Tennis fans love upsets and the story of an underdog conquering all, tennis players on the other hand hated things like that, or at least the top players did. Novak didn’t get to see Roger’s reply until he was in the locker room, about to jump in the shower before the interview session. As the loser, Mardy had to go first and he chose to go without showering, leaving the entire locker room open to Novak. He sat on the bench half dressed, missing strange items like his right shoe and sock, undershirt and sweatbands, while still wearing his shorts and warm up jacket, along with his left side footwear. It wasn’t a logical procedure of undressing, but he was busy contemplating what next to say to Roger’s “Well I thought if I couldn’t win this tournament, then you should.”

He had paused when he read that, suddenly overwhelmed with pride. Other than selfishly wanting to win himself, Novak was Roger’s second choice. The Serb sat on the bench, wondering when he had surpassed Rafa as Roger’s right hand friend, because surely that is what it meant. He didn’t want to relay this through a message, or even acknowledge that interpretation. It could just be something he said, to fill space, some meaningless message to keep the conversation going. As Novak thought this his throat burned from holding back tears that were threatening to form. Would Roger be so cruel? No, Novak told himself, trusting the image of the kind, respectable man in his head and letting his meltdown go down the conveniently located drain beneath him.

“What are your plans tonight? Do you want to celebrate with me?” Novak texted hopefully, opting for a change of subject rather than an awkward segue into what he really wanted to know.

Roger answered when he got back to his room, where he watched Novak’s interview on television. Roger might have turned him down, like he usually would to anyone else who asked, but he could see the hope written on Novak’s face as he dodged uncomfortable questions and looked over to his phone as if the device could help him. He found himself unable to shatter that hope and texted quickly, “Sure thing. What were you thinking of doing?” The reaction was immediate. The Serb’s phone was now on silent, but the blue background light was flashing noticeably, tipping both Novak and press off to his incoming message. Novak visibly relaxed, successfully avoiding questions regarding his phone activity on court after the match and right then. He claimed it was his family he was talking to, a decent story considering it may be a sweet sentiment, but it is also completely uninteresting to the hawk-like reporters. The interview was quick. Novak said he played well and named a few things the other guy did right as well, leaving nearly ten minutes after he got Roger’s text.

“No big party. Murray and all the others left me :( I was thinking we could have a few beers and watch the football game,” Novak offered. He knew Roger liked to watch football, almost becoming a professional at that sport instead of tennis.

“Great, just don’t get as drunk as last time. You don’t want to have to go around making late night apologies :)” Roger joked, thinking back to the night their friendship began. Novak also looked back fondly, wondering how everything changed so much in less than a month.

“I promise I won’t. So 8pm? Room 316,” Novak sent, finally settling into his room after convincing his camp they could meet the next day rather than that night.

Roger was a bit surprised at the time Novak sent for him to show up. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon, what would the Serb be doing until then? There were football games on all day, so their meet up time didn’t really depend on that. As Roger laid down for a nap, setting his alarm to make sure he didn’t oversleep, he remembered the past two times they hung out, both times ending with Novak falling asleep. It was suddenly quite obvious what the younger man would be doing…sleeping.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Novak ordered some beers and sandwiches from room service, having them sent up half an hour before Roger was due to arrive. It was better if the hotel employee didn’t see him and Roger in a hotel room together. The press always seemed to catch wind of things like that, who hangs out with whom and where. It wouldn’t look right for two known rivals to appear together anywhere, let alone somewhere so private. Novak wished that he had gotten a larger suite, one with a sitting room attached. It was always awkward to casually lay in bed with someone, something Novak had already discovered from their last meeting in a hotel room.

Roger arrived at eight o’ clock exactly, perfectly on time as always. The Spain versus Ireland game had just begun and they settled in quickly to watch. Several beers later they were laughing at every little thing, from a guy getting a ball to the face, to the Geico gecko eating chips and calling them "crisps" like Andy. Eventually the match ended, neither tennis star knowing which team won. Novak booed as American Football came on next, his least favorite sport as well as most of Europe’s. Roger had grown accustom to it over the past few years, it was one of Tiger’s favorite things to watch and so he had seen quite a few games.

“It’s not so bad,” Roger said, slurring his words dramatically as he made a grab for the remote, which Novak was hoarding.

“It’s ‘orrible,” the Serb said, losing the ‘h’ somehow in his drunkness. He rolled away from Roger to defend the remote, but the Swiss man reached around him to get a hold on it. They wrestled for it, both taking custody of the device briefly before the other yanked it away. Somewhere in the scuffle, the television turned off when the power button was accidently pushed. It took them several minutes to realize this, but when they did Novak rolled off Roger and abandoned his remote-stealing efforts. His hand lingered on the chest of his friend, his thumb moving up and down unconsciously. Roger turned his head slightly to face the Serb, breathing heavily, and Novak reacted, closing the space between their lips. The kiss was soft and sudden, with Novak pulling away after just a few seconds. He would’ve felt guilty or embarrassed, but the look in Roger’s eyes told him he didn’t need to. Novak planted another one on him, this one more insistent, longer and with a new confidence. When Novak pulled away he laid flat on his back, not looking over at Roger, who was also avoiding his eye. Their booze consumption quickly quelled them to sleep, leaving the awkward questions for the next morning.


	6. Chapter 6

Roger was lucky enough to be the first to wake the next morning, looking hesitantly over at his newest friend, deep in slumber. His inhibitions might have been loose the previous night, but his memory was well intact. Most of the night had been innocent enough, drinking beer and watching football, but then there was that other part, the wrestling part which might have been innocent too if not for the lip lock that followed.   
   
Roger quietly gathered his things, feeling a strange sort of satisfaction in being the one who gets to sneak out early. It’s not that he wanted Novak to feel alone, but the last two times they secretly met up in a hotel room, the Serb had the advantage of leaving if things got too weird. Now Roger had that advantage and he utilized it, disappearing from the room in minutes. Within the hour Roger was en route to Miami. The three hour plane trip proved to be just long enough to convince Roger that he had no idea what the hell was going on with his life anymore.

\----------------------------------------

Novak woke up with a mind-splitting headache. It wasn’t until he saw all the empty bottles scattered throughout the room that he realized why he felt so awful. Remembering the prior night he reached out his arm to the other side of the bed, only to grasp air. Roger was gone. There was no use wondering why he had run off, Novak had given him plenty reason to never speak to him again. Novak was hurt by his absence, but also relieved. How the hell was he going to explain what had happened? It wasn’t planned, though to Roger it probably looks like the Serb lured him here to seduce him or something. Novak didn’t even know he wanted to kiss Roger until he was doing it. And at the time the older man didn’t seem too bothered by it, surprised maybe, but certainly not run-away-the-next-morning-without-a-word freaked out.   
   
It was confusing and hard to think about, even if he didn’t have a headache it would be. He wasn’t even sure of his own feelings, and now he had to worry about Roger’s feelings. And how he was reacting? Does Roger hate him again? Is he freaked out enough to go to the media? Novak covered his head with the pillow, hoping that would drown out the questioning voices in his head. An alarm went off somewhere in the room telling him it was getting close to his departure time and Novak dreaded the Miami tournament and the Swiss man he would surely see there, possibly even come across on court. How the hell was he going to survive this tournament?

\--------------------------------------------------

Mirka had gone home for two days. It was her mother’s birthday and she couldn’t bear to miss it, especially since she didn’t have much to look forward to if she stayed. They might have been more distant than ever, but Roger was desperately happy to see her when she arrived in Miami. She came knocking on his door as soon as her bags were safely in her room and Roger scooped her into his arms instantly, pressing his lips to hers with a desperation he hadn’t felt in years.   
   
He heard Mirka moan into the languid kiss, but he didn’t feel the heat. Roger kept the kiss going, parting only seconds for air, hoping that he would feel something, anything really. It was wet, sloppy and her face was squishy against his. Roger hated himself for comparing her to the strong jaw of the Serb with a light dusting of stubble on his chin. Roger couldn’t imagine ever enjoying kissing Mirka now and that scared the hell out of him. He was determined to keep going with it until he did.   
   
They pulled apart finally when breath was scarce. “What was that for?” she asked excitedly, her brown eyes full of hope. Roger didn’t dare acknowledge that question in his mind. He had kissed her many times before, she is his girlfriend after all, they’ve done a lot more than kissing over the years, but it was strange this time, almost unnatural and that thought was killing Roger. He should want to kiss Mirka, the love of his life, but he couldn’t help but feel empty afterward, bored even.

“I missed you,” he said simply, a pang of guilt hitting him in the chest. He missed the days when he actually did miss her, cared about her like that and truly loved her. Their relationship now is just a shell of what it used to be and they’ve been clinging onto it much longer than anyone else would…or should. He had made a mistake in letting her be his manager, at the time thinking she would be in his life forever, or at least that he’d want her there forever.

She is talking now, suggesting they go do something, but Roger knows he can’t. The tournament starts tomorrow and he likes to be well rested and prepared for every match, and he’s had enough disappointment with her for the day. He was hoping, had been for the past two days, that when they kissed Roger would be reminded of the intense passion they used to share and be so mesmerized that he would forget about Novak and their strange night together. He had spent all his time hoping, praying even, that he could feel the same excitement when kissing his girlfriend as he had when Novak kissed him.

\------------------------------------

He was in Miami now and feeling alone. Novak’s parents only came to the Majors and some European tournaments, not being able to leave their youngest son at home or bring him away from school for too long. Murray had texted him, but Novak knew he couldn’t face his Scottish friend. They had grown apart in the last few weeks and Novak knew he was to blame. There was tension between them because Novak had been holding back. He felt guilty for not telling Murray about his friendship with Federer, and now that Novak stupidly jeopardized their bond, there was nobody he could go to for help. He and Murray had never talked about relationship issues, only an occasional hookup here and there, so it would no doubt be a shock to the Scot if he suddenly admitted to kissing a fellow ATP tour mate that everybody thought he hated.

As he checked into the Miami hotel, the clerk at the front desk told him he had a message from Ana Ivanovic, his compatriot, occasional mixed doubles partner and one of his few platonic female friends. It was a friendly message inviting him to share a meal at some point while they were in Miami to catch up and discuss their plan for the Olympics. There was a meeting for Serbian athletes invited to play for the country’s national team coming up in less than a month and they had not discussed whether to play mixed doubles in Beijing. Novak sighed in relief, the answer to his problems coming to him instantly. Ana was a girl, she knew about relationship things and as long as he was careful what he revealed, she might be able to help him. Novak called her up and set a lunch date for the next day, hoping their matches would both finish long before the two o’clock reservation.

\-----------------------------------------------

Roger found himself looking over his shoulder at every turn, feeling eyes constantly on him. He knew somewhere in this very same hotel was Novak and the anxious uncertainty he felt about that made him question if he could handle being here. Roger knew he should hate Novak for what he did, that was the straight guy reaction to something like that, right? But it’s not like the Serb was alone in it, Roger kissed him back. He had thought of almost nothing else for days, as much as he’d like to forget it, but none of his elaborate explanations fit. He couldn’t just write this off in his mind. It had occurred to Roger that it might be a Serbian thing; maybe they kiss good friends casually, like the French offer a peck on the cheek in greeting. Deep down, Roger knew it was nothing like that. They had been together for several hours before the kiss occurred, so it couldn’t be a greeting, but that didn’t keep Roger from convincing himself it was just that, a casual kiss between friends. That was the only way he would ever be able to face Novak again and according to the draw, he would have to see him in the Semifinals.

\-------------------------------------------------

“Nole!” Ana shouted excitedly, waving him over to the table on the balcony. He would have to go through the restaurant to get upstairs to where she was, but he was grateful for the privacy they would have as the balcony’s only guests.

“How ‘bout it?” she asked immediately after they ordered. Her tone was simple, not demanding or persuasive and Novak didn’t feel pressured.

“My coach says it’s a risky move, being both of our first Olympics. Might tire us out for singles,” he commented.

“Yeah, Sven thinks I might be spreading myself a little thin, possibly risking injury,” she sounded moderately concerned.

“Next time?” Novak suggested and she happily agreed, glad to have it decided so amicably.

“So what have you been up to baby boy?” she asked sweetly. Novak was a year older than her, but in terms of maturity she was the elder and looked after him like a brother.

“I made a new friend,” he said awkwardly, a blush creeping across his face. Novak had considered many ways to have this conversation, but that didn’t make it easier.

“Oh yeah? What kind of friend?” Ana asked excitedly, already suspecting he meant more than friend.

“That I don’t know,” he admitted sadly. Novak didn’t even know if he was allowed to call Roger a friend anymore, or if that was all he wanted to call him. “I thought we were just friends…”

“Did you get into a fight?” she questioned, looking concerned.

“Not yet, but I think we might. I did something stupid,” he said, owning up to it for the first time.

“How stupid?”

“It was just a kiss, a drunken kiss at that. But it never should’ve happened.”

“There are worse things you could’ve done than kiss her. Did she tell you not to or something?” Ana asked, relieved that it was only a kiss he was concerning himself with.

Novak ignored the ‘her’, he would only tell Ana it was a ‘he’ if that was completely necessary, and under no conditions would he say it was Roger that had him all bothered. “Not exactly, but I knew that was off the table. I didn’t even know I wanted to until I did and now I can’t think about anything else.”

“You haven’t talked to her about it?”

“I haven’t had the chance to, apart from a call or text. I think it might be over for good,” he said, looking down at his food that had apparently been delivered at some point and pushing it around the plate.

“Don’t say that, I’m sure she is fine with it. More than fine. I can’t imagine a girl being upset that you kissed her,” Ana reasoned happily, failing to see the problem. What girl wouldn’t want to kiss a successful and very attractive professional tennis player?

“No girl maybe,” he spoke under his breath as Ana looked down at her food to take a bite. He hadn’t meant to say it so loud and regretted it immediately when her eyes shot up in surprise.

“What? No girl?” She looked astonished and Novak thought she may have a heart attack.

He wasn’t sure if he should explain or leave her dumbfounded and hope she would think it was a misunderstanding. Opting for boldness he continued. “That’s why it freaked me out so much. I kissed a guy,” he said softly, not wanting to startle her.

“I didn’t know you…” she said, slowly regaining her composure but not enough to say it out loud.

“It was news to me too. I thought we had this normal friendship and then all of a sudden it wasn’t so normal. And now I’m questioning every little thing since we first became friends. Was I happy to hear from him every day because it was a new exciting friendship or did I like him all along?” Novak went on venting. It felt good to say it out loud and he felt some of the stress fade.

“Any chance I get to know the identity of this mystery friend?” she asked playfully, returning to her happy joyful self. He had caught her off guard, but other than initial shock she seemed quite accepting, more so than he had been at first.

“Maybe once I figure out if there is still a friendship to salvage. He may want nothing to do with me after that.”

“Did he kiss back?” Novak smiled at the question. She really was a very nosy girl.

“I think so. But it probably doesn’t count. Most people would kiss back after a couple of beers,” Novak reasoned. He hadn’t really thought about that part. Roger kissed him back. It wasn’t a deep kiss, more like a prolonged peck, but he was not the only culprit.

“Really? Because I don’t know many straight guys that would agree with that. Most of them would be more likely to kick your ass for trying.”

“True. But he’s definitely straight. Girlfriend and all,” he said sadly. He may not know how he felt about the Swiss man, but Mirka would always be an obstacle, if he even gave thoughts of them a chance.

Ana gasped, swatting at his arm. “Oh, Nole. He has a girlfriend?” she sounded upset. Novak got the feeling that she was putting him in “the other woman” category and he didn’t like that at all. Sure, he kind of made Roger cheat on Mirka, something he had never heard of the older man doing before, but it only counted as cheating if he liked it, right? And Novak had no reason to believe he did.

\------------------------------------------------

‘Damn him’ Roger thought as he raced back to his room after a routine win. He had seen Djokovic for the first time since that night and he had to get away before the Serb saw him. It had been nearly a week since the hotel room and Roger found himself reliving that moment as he lay on his own hotel bed, not seeming to care that this was a different bed at a different hotel in a different state. It still brought back the memory and his hand reached up to touch his lips softly in response, remembering how Djokovic’s lips felt against his own. The more he thought about it, the less repulsed he felt and that scared him.   
   
He had gone through many stages so far, shock, awe, denial, but he was waiting for the anger to come so he could get to acceptance. The only thing that did make him angry was that days later he still didn’t have any contact from Novak. It fell on the Serb to reinitiate contact, since it was his actions that made it cease, but Roger had a feeling as to why he hadn’t heard anything. They were at a tournament and according to Roger’s ownrules they shouldn’t communicate during a mutually entered tournament. ‘Damn me’ he thought now, knowing that he had done this to himself, or at least helped.

Mirka popped her head in to check on him, noticing that it was nearly nine o’clock at night and he had not eaten. She ordered him room service and asked about his match. She was a tennis player herself, therefore completely capable of analyzing it, but he knew she was asking how he  _felt_ about it. Roger drew a blank. He was always one to remember every last detail from the moment he stepped on court and now he could barely remember who he played. It was someone he had played before, the face in his memory was familiar, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember who it was.

“Kiefer,” he said suddenly after several moments, remembering the German man’s face from across the net. Mirka looked at him oddly; they had been talking about the man for over five minutes. “Are you feeling alright?” she asked with a voice full of worry. Roger couldn’t help but think she was running over all the interviews he was scheduled for in the next few days and how she’d hate to cancel them simply because he’s ill. “Just tired, I think,” he replied and fell asleep before his room service dinner arrived.

\--------------------------------------

The tournament flew by quickly enough, both players flying through to the semifinals where they were doomed to face each other. Roger was worried, genuinely concerned that he didn’t stand a chance against the Serb in the match. He had been coasting through his matches without much thought, lucky that even his lowest effort was enough to beat some competitors, but it would take more to beat Novak. Roger couldn’t even be in the same room as Djokovic, he ran away at the sight of him in the locker room, and now he was expected to be around him for an extended amount of time. In public too! It was a nightmare, even worse than a nightmare because it would soon come true. Anxiety and dread filled the Swiss man as he flipped through the red folder on Djokovic.   
  
He flung the folder across the room and watched with satisfaction as the papers scattered on the floor. Roger didn’t want to think about Novak, he thinks about him enough already and that stupid folder reminded him of the very man he wanted to forget about. Not more than a month ago he was handing over one of his precious red folders to an unlikely subject. He still didn’t know why he did it, nobody outside of his camp ever got access to these papers, not even Stanislas when they play doubles against some of these foes.

A soft knock came on the door and Mirka keyed into the room, she always got the spare key. Roger could feel her at his side, looking over the disheveled room and then at him. She picked up the picture of Novak on the ground and set it gently on the bedside table. Every folder had a picture of the player, not that Roger ever forgot what they looked like, but it was customary, even the thick folder on Nadal has a picture. Roger looked over at the picture as Mirka collected the pages, attempting to put them back in order. The smirk was there, the arrogant one that Roger had hated for so long and he was reminded that Novak was always different on court. He was a different person, not the funny and bashful young man that Roger had gotten to know recently, an egotistically cold and distant competitor came out from the first point to last. Only after play was through did the other side of Novak show up, the side he feared. Roger knew that as long as he could stay away from Serb after the match he would be fine, or at least less of a flight risk.

\-------------------------------------------

 _‘He thinks I didn’t see him, briskly walking toward the nearest exit of the locker room, almost abandoning the post match wrap up the Tennis Channel had him doing. All I want to do is clear the air, talk to him again, but he clearly won’t allow me that. I’d rather him yell than flee at the sight of me. It’s disheartening because I know now that it’s over, whatever strange quasi friendship we had is gone and he won’t even give me a blow out argument for closure. I was going to take Ana’s advice, talk to him, at least see how he feels. “There’s no use freaking out until you know his reaction. Just figure out how you feel,” she told me and I think I finally have. I liked it. I don’t know why but I really liked kissing Roger. Who knows what that means, but it’s the truth and I know that now. I’m not really sure exactly what it is I want from him, the thought of my first homosexual relationship was scary enough, but the fact that he is Roger Federer, a man who is quite possibly the best tennis player to ever exist, now that is truly intimidating. I know I want to be his friend still, I hope that will never change, but the other stuff, the more than friends stuff, has yet to be decided. Sure, I liked kissing him but do I want to do more? What exactly does more entail for guys? That’s the stuff I don’t know, but as I watch him scurry out of the locker room my gut clenches painfully and I wonder if it even matters what I want. It seems he has already made up his mind.’_  
  
\-------------------------------------  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So mostly aftermath here and their separate reactions. Match in the next chapter, uh oh Roger's scared lol. I thought I'd steal the semis match from Miami 2009 and transport it back to 2008 (where they both lost early). It was just such a dramatic match and fits the story so well. I couldn't resist.
> 
> Consider this picture a preview of chapter :   
> http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jXWgNx2HcLw/SdZ7xxvWT_I/AAAAAAAAAas/dklhH9TcP0o/s400/Novak+Vs+Federer+Miami.jpg


	7. Chapter 7

Roger was very aware of the exact moment he lost the Semifinals match. It was in the locker room before they even stepped on court. He noticed Novak out of the corner of his eye, and their gazes locked for a moment before Roger looked down quickly. Novak was wearing a blue shirt that made him look perfectly bronze. Somehow the electric blue brought out his eyes, which weren’t at all blue, more of a green hazel. He looked ridiculous in his matching blue shoes that stuck out so strongly against the pale colors of the room. The look that Roger caught from Djokovic before he turned away was predatory, and he knew instantly that he was wrong to think he could handle this side of Novak. Whether it was the moments-away match that put this look on his face or latent anger over the kiss, Roger did not know, but he could tell that he was doomed, especially with the way he had been playing lately.  

Roger was right to think he was going down, but what he failed to foresee was the anger that filled him at every point. He wasn’t playing well at all, possibly the worst he had played this whole tournament. Somehow he had stolen the first set, it seemed Novak wasn’t trying as hard as he could but Roger couldn’t prove it. That all changed in the second set when Roger did the one thing that Novak would never tolerate—he went easy on him.

It was a relatively normal point, a couple shots back and forth between them before Novak started moving into net, but his approach shot was weak, hovering lamely above the service line, right in Roger’s strike zone. If it were anyone else, or even another day when they didn’t have this dark cloud of tension around them, Roger would have gone for the obvious shot right at Novak. He probably would not get the ball back and it would send a clear message—don’t try that again. But Roger couldn’t make that shot because it would require looking at the Serb for longer than a moment and he felt himself breaking apart at simply the idea of it. He went for the best alternative, a shot down the line, but even that lacked the necessary power due to his distraction. Novak returned it with an easy, graceful backhand volley. Roger shrugged, figuring that was exactly what he deserved for his hesitation.

Roger could feel the Serb’s glare blaring into him from the other side of the court but he refused to meet his eyes. Surely Novak would see right through him, knowing the Swiss man had far too much control to play such a sloppy point unless he was seriously distracted. Roger refused to acknowledge him, looking anywhere but across the court after each point, but this only seemed to make Djokovic angry.  His ‘come on!’ cheers finally emerged, as well as yelled phrases in his native language that were certainly menacing, but the chair umpire didn’t understand what he was saying. That pushed Roger over the edge. He was already pissed at himself for his poor playing, even kicking a tennis ball toward a ball boy after a missed shot, but it wasn’t until he failed to overcome a couple of break points against him and Novak shouted out that he got visibly pissed. He hadn’t smashed a racket on court in years, but there he was whacking it into the ground. He didn’t go overboard, just one strong swing and it was destroyed.

Roger saw the Serb’s reaction, looking up at him the moment after it happened. There was shock there, and much more emotion than he ever showed on court but Roger wouldn’t dwell on it. After that the taunts stopped. Novak humbly accepted every point he won, not even daring to look up at the Swiss man. Roger felt guilty, but satisfied somehow. Now Novak felt as bad as he had this past week, the only difference being that the Serb was about to walk away with the match.

It ended quickly enough and in no time they were faced with the moment Roger had dreaded the most, the after match handshake. Novak got there first, being closer to the net already and he waited, looking at Roger as he walked slowly toward the net. Roger was startled by what he saw, a broken man, lost, confused and sad, all covered by a false layer of happiness. It was all in his eyes and Roger didn’t even have a moment to wonder when he had learned to read the other man so effectively.   
   
They held each other’s gaze for several moments and didn’t speak a word. They each held out their hand, as was expected, and briefly they connected. Roger’s hand felt tingly and warm at the embrace, and he knew it wasn’t just the Miami heat. They walked along the net side by side and Roger could have swore he heard the other man whisper “I’m sorry” softly, so that only they could hear.    
   
Those were the words he had been waiting for, the conversation starter that needed to happen, but it wasn’t the time or place. Roger cursed the timing of it all, but knew the locker room wouldn’t be better. He had seen Murray in the stands who would be Novak’s opponent in the final, and it wouldn’t be long before the Scot made his way down to the locker room to meet his friend.

‘Damn,’ Roger thought for the millionth time that week as he packed up his things and left, walking straight through the locker room and to the car that was waiting for him. He just had to get out of there.

 ----------------------------------------

Roger was pacing around his suite like a mad man. It had been hours since the match and by now it was well into the night. Every couple of minutes he would look down at his shaky hand like it was a traitor. There was a phantom tingling across his skin where Novak touched him and he cursed himself for being so receptive to it, especially three hours later.

Roger thought about every match he ever played against Djokovic. At least a dozen came to mind and never before had anything like this happened. He had shaken hands with Novak many times after matches, hugged him and, well, kissed him. That’s what made it different now, what made his hand jitter with nerves at just the thought of Novak with his slightly boozy breath and gentle hand running across Roger's stomach. ‘ _Great, there go the butterflies’,_ he thought bitterly, hunching over as his insides squirmed, following the same rhythm as his rapidly clenching and unclenching hand.

The part driving him crazy was that he wanted more contact, more than just uniting their hands for a few brief moments. He had wanted to pull Novak in for a hug and maybe even… ‘ _No_ ’ he told himself. Roger couldn’t admit that he had almost made the same mistake that Novak did that night, if it was a mistake at all.

He had been doing this for hours, but knew the morning was far off and even further away was the chance of him ever getting to sleep tonight. This was far from over.

Mirka stopped by briefly to tell him she rescheduled their flight for early the next morning. They were going back to Switzerland for his two week break from the tour and she attempted to comfort him with the idea of seeing their families. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to calm him. If anything it made him more stressed. How could he face any of his loved ones when he could hardly face himself? She looked at him expectantly in a way that reminded Roger of a puppy who had just done something good and was expecting to be showered in praise. Roger fought the urge to pat her on the head and shoo her out the door in the most condescending way he could muster, but he settled for just a hasty shoo out of the room.

After she left, Roger found that his inability to sit still was growing worse somehow. He couldn’t do anything but think about Novak and where they stood, that and jog in place. It was all he had thought about for a week, but there was urgency now that he hadn’t felt before. Roger grabbed his jacket and left the room, fully prepared to harass the clerk downstairs for Novak’s room number.

\---------------------------

It took some convincing, and under the table bribery that was very unlike him, but Roger now had a room number scribbled onto his forearm, hidden completely from prying eyes by the sleeve of his jacket. He didn’t even know if Novak would be there, or if he would be alone or up for a chat, but Roger wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t give it a try.

He was there at last, outside the door, and without a moment’s hesitation he knocked. Novak was there in seconds looking downright bewildered to see him. His eyes went wide as he looked over his visitor and it took him several moments to react.

“Roger,” Novak said in awe, opening the door wider and stepping back to let the older man in. _‘Or he’s retreating,’_ Roger thought wryly.

Roger stood there, staring at his friend who took on an air of determined silence. He was waiting for Roger’s next move. The Swiss man stepped in the room carefully, still contemplating what to say, how to explain himself, but the moment the door was shut Roger found himself closing the space between them and pushing Novak up against the door in a feverish kiss.

It was different this time, less drunkenly clumsy and more persistent. Novak opened his mouth slightly in shock and Roger took advantage of it, allowing his tongue to explore. It didn’t take Novak long to catch up, kissing back with equal intensity and bringing his arms up to Roger’s neck to pull him closer. Novak’s fingers twirled in the curls that were usually held back by a sporty Nike bandana. It was perfect and so right that everything else was forgotten until they finally parted for air.

“What the hell,” Novak murmured absentmindedly, awed by what just happened and pleased out of his mind.

Roger misinterpreted his words, thinking he had gone too far, forcing something on Novak he hadn’t wanted. The Swiss man was quick to move away and pulled open the door that had supported them only moments prior. Roger was halfway down the hall before Novak got up the nerve to go after him, not wanting Roger to slip away again.

“Roger, wait,” he said and the older man obeyed, pausing with his back facing his friend.

Novak moved quickly toward him, stepping between him and the path to the elevators, cutting off the most convenient get-away route. If Roger was going to run away from him now, he would have to take the stairs. “I don’t want you to go,” Novak said pleadingly and Roger looked at him with a mix of confusion and happiness.

“You don’t?” he asked sheepishly, feeling the relief wash over his body. Novak wanted him there.

“No, of course not,” Novak reassured him.

They returned to the hotel room rather quickly, very aware that other players might be in neighboring rooms. Just the sight of them together off court would surely be gossip worthy, but if anyone were to discover what was going on between them outside of tennis, the story would be worth more than some of these players make in a year on tour. And the thought of all this being ruined so quickly over hesitation in a hallway was too threatening for them give it a chance to happen.

There were words that needed to be said between them, things to discuss, but neither seemed ready for that. They made it further into the room this time, all the way to the bed where all this had started.  
  
Their lips connected again as they slipped under the covers. Only shirts were discarded as they rolled around beneath the sheets, both fighting for dominance. It was a long night of kissing, ranging from gentle nips to steamy marathon kisses that left their lungs burning from lack of air.

Eventually the night gave way to tiredness. It was an exhausting week for them both, having to play tennis with the confusing thoughts of _them_ always on their minds. Careful avoidance and secret longing looks from afar were their only interactions until the fiasco of a match, but now that Roger had Novak in his arms, he didn’t really care if he got a trophy at the end of the week.  
  
They fell asleep holding each other still, so different from the times before when an intentional amount of space was set between them. Novak held onto consciousness for a moment longer to set an alarm for the next morning, he had a finals match to play after all, and after snuggling up close to Roger’s chest, he fell asleep happier than he can remember being in a long time.

\--------------------------------**************************-------------------------------------

An annoying ring sounded off the next morning, far too early for the sleeping pair’s taste. Novak grimaced as he grabbed his phone off the nightstand, bringing it closer to him so he could turn it off. The sound was awfully annoying, but it never failed to wake him up.   
   
Roger stirred at the noise as the Serb brought it closer, pulling one arm away from Novak’s waist to cover his ear. Reluctantly he sat up like the man beside him, fully aware that this wasn’t his suite and he would have to leave soon so Novak could prepare for his match.

“Morning,” Novak said with a smirk, noticing how disheveled Roger’s usually pristine hair looked and knowing that he was entirely responsible for its current disarray.

“G’morning,” Roger replied, wiping at his eyes sleepily. He would definitely be going back to sleep the moment he got back to his room.

“Should we?” Novak started awkwardly, looking as if he’d really rather not.

“Talk?” Roger finished his thought. “Probably should.”

They waited for several moments silently, neither actually wanting to go over what needed to be said. “How about we postpone the big talk for now and just say what we think needs to be said,” Roger suggested.

“And that would be?” Novak questioned, not really sure what all was considered part of ‘the big talk.’

“I like…" he paused. "Kissing you,” Roger finished awkwardly, his cheeks pinker than normal. He almost said ‘I like you’ but he wasn’t sure the extent of his feelings so he refrained. He had only come over the night before to talk after all, how was he to know he'd want to kiss Novak again? And again. And kiss him again some more. 

“I like kissing you too,” Novak replied with a smile and Roger returned his grin. He knew that was true. “And I’d like to do this again sometime,” Novak added. He didn’t want to go through another long week of waiting to know where they stood. If they agreed to do this again then he wouldn’t have to worry...as much.

“As would I,” Roger said, beaming with satisfaction. He was okay now. Yesterday, not so much, but today things were right.

The silence came again but it wasn’t so heavy this time. Novak broke it with a question that he knew was treading into ‘the big talk’ zone. “So what are we?” he asked, gesturing between them.

Roger thought for a moment but didn’t seem to come to a conclusion. “Maybe we shouldn’t put a definition on us yet,” Roger suggested, fully aware that he had a girlfriend waiting for him a few floors up.

“Okay,” Novak said sounding relieved. He didn’t know enough about these things yet to have a boyfriend. That would be too much of a shock. Just a month ago he was unquestionably straight! 

Novak must’ve looked confused because Federer added reassuringly, “Somewhere in the ballpark of friends…with benefits.”   
   
He knew it was a lame title and felt more than a little bit awkward admitting that, but that is all they could be for now.

Novak smiled, “That sounds like a definition,” he said playfully.

Before Roger could respond, Novak’s phone went off again, this time his normal ringtone filling the room. “Hello,” he answered hesitantly.

It was his manager, making sure he was awake and getting ready. “Yes, I’m awake,” he responded. “No you don’t have to come over here. I can manage.”

Roger pried himself from the warmth of the bed, sensing it was time to go. He gathered his shirt off the ground, wondering vaguely how Novak had thrown it so far the night before. Roger was just about to slip on his jacket and head for the door when Novak moved toward him, still on the phone. He grabbed Roger’s arm and looked at him amusedly.

Novak’s room number was visible in pen ink now smeared across his forearm up into the crease of his elbow, though the numbers were still perfectly readable. Novak smiled at him brightly as he licked his finger and rubbed it gently on the other man’s skin, wiping away the only proof of their night together. Roger watched the numbers blur into an inky mess on his skin and Novak’s thumb, but even when the writing was unrecognizable he kept his finger moving in light circles over the dyed skin in a pleasant rhythm that kept Roger glued to his spot, unable to move away from the Serb.

Novak tried to end his conversation with his manager several times, but the man kept talking about all the things he had to do this week, appearances and photo shoots. The Serbian Olympic team meeting in less than a week.

“Listen Alon, I’ve got a match in a couple hours. Could we talk about all this afterward?” he asked, rolling his eyes dramatically. Roger wanted to laugh but knew he should be quiet.

“No, everything’s okay. Don’t come over here. I just…need to focus on my match?” Novak suggested, hoping his manager would stay far away. After a few more nags about his schedule, Alon let him go after making Novak promise he won’t claim to be too tired to talk after the match.

“Right, I’ll see you there,” Novak said in a final tone and hung up, breathing a sigh of relief.

“So do friends-with-benefits come to each other’s matches?” Novak asked in a joking tone, ignoring the fluttering in his chest as he waited for an answer.

Roger smiled brightly and Novak felt himself release the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Only when they don’t have an early flight home,” he said apologetically.

“Oh,” Novak said, trying desperately to hide his disappointment. “And what would you have done if you made the final?” Novak added quickly, wondering vaguely if Roger was making an excuse for a quick exit or if he truly had to go.

Roger thought for a moment. He had planned for a flight that evening, but after his post-match meltdown the previous day Mirka had rescheduled. Roger could explain all that, but he was choosing not to think about his girlfriend at the moment, and casually mentioning her to the man he just spent the night with was confusing in a way his mind wasn’t yet able to accept. “Well the flight isn’t until noon, so I’d just win quickly,” Roger said playfully.

Novak gave him a look that clearly said ‘not if I’m still in it you wouldn’t.’ Roger laughed, despite his resolution to be cross with Novak about his smug attitude. It really was adorable sometimes.   
   
“And what if the match was taking too long?” he asked, moving Roger’s arm, which was still in his grasp, around to grip his waist, pulling the other to do the same.

“I could always retire early for heat exhaustion,” Roger joked, poking fun at Novak’s go-to excuse that the media and players often question.

“You might want to try something more terminal. Unless you’re dying they don’t believe you,” Novak replied thoughtfully in a way that made Federer question if all his seemingly unnecessary retirements were legit.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Roger said softly against his ear, delighted by the shudder that shook through the Serb as his hot breath ghosted over the sensitive area. He kissed his way along Novak’s jaw before drawing him in for a hungry kiss.

Novak smirked into the kiss, pulling Roger’s body closer to him and leading them toward the bed until his legs hit the mattress and they fell backward.

Roger wasn’t sure what made things escalate. Perhaps now that their ‘friendship’ terms were clearer there was less need to hold back, or maybe the fifteen minutes they had to behave for the phone call put them both on edge, either way there was a fierceness in their movements that hadn’t been there before.

Novak’s back was on the bed now and Roger was hovering above him. There was space between them and Novak couldn’t stand it, he pulled at Roger’s shoulders until he lowered himself down. Novak heard himself gasp as Roger’s body molded against his, fitting perfectly in a way that he was beginning to understand a woman’s body never would. Roger planted suckling kisses along the Serb’s neck, which was now perfectly exposed since he turned his head to the side. Novak didn’t even know his hips were grinding up against Federer until the Swiss man let out a low groan that sent shivers all over his body.  
   
After that it was Roger who was doing the grinding and Novak could feel the older man’s cock harden against his own.

Roger kissed him again, though Novak had a feeling it was only to keep himself from moaning and Serb really wished he wouldn’t hold back. He wanted to remember this, every move and every brilliant sound that escaped Roger’s lips, because he knew they wouldn’t be seeing each other very soon. Roger’s pace increased and Novak could feel himself getting closer to the edge. Just a few more strokes…

A knock at the door. Roger pulled away immediately and stopped his actions, giving Novak a questioning look. “Ignore it,” he breathed, pulling Roger back to him. Moments later another knock came, followed by “Mr. Djokovic?”

“He’s not going away,” Roger said sadly, rolling off the younger man so he could answer the door. Novak rolled his eyes and reluctantly pulled on semi-presentable clothes.

“Yes,” he growled as he opened the door, finding a man in the hotel uniform with a tray of food. _Oh yeah, breakfast,_ Novak thought stupidly, wondering why he had forgotten such a normal part of his routine. After dealing with the man, Novak returned to the bedroom with the food, hoping that Roger would share it with him. _Is staying for breakfast too much to ask?_

To his disappointment, Novak found Roger mostly dressed again and gathering his things. Looking over at the clock, Novak saw that it was getting late and both he and Roger had places to be.

“Who was it?” he asked as Novak came back into sight.

“Breakfast,” Novak said, discarding the tray to a nearby table. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I have to. The flight…” Roger said regretfully. If only Mirka hadn’t rescheduled it, then he could stay here with Novak for longer.

Novak nodded his acceptance, but couldn’t help but be disappointed. He finally had Roger and now he was going away again.

“C’mere,” Roger pulled Novak close to him, sensing his discontent. “We’ll do this again,” he said reassuringly, smiling as he felt the Serb nod into his shoulder.

“Soon?” Novak asked hopefully, wondering vaguely when he became so attached to the Swiss man.

“Soon. At the next tournament,” Roger promises, telling himself as much as Novak. Roger almost wished he wasn’t taking some time off. If this last week of awkward isolation was any indication, two weeks away from the Serb would be difficult. “You will text me?” he asked.

Novak pulled away and smiled. “Of course. You too?”

Roger nodded, his hand on the door. “Well, goodbye then,” Roger said simply, and then he was gone. Novak sighed. _What a night_ , he thought happily before rushing to get ready for his match. The car would be there in twenty minutes!


	8. Chapter 8

There was an unimaginable amount of traffic on the way to the stadium. If he had walked, Novak probably would have made it there much quicker than the forty-five minutes it took their car to go four blocks. There were huffs of annoyance from his manager, coach and his publicist, who even hopped out of the car at a particularly long stop to grab a latte. They only moved fifteen feet while he was gone. Alon glared at Novak from across the limo, since it was the tennis star that made them slightly late, but the Serb didn’t pay any notice. He was staring out at the beautiful view of the ocean, completely lost in thought.

Yesterday he had honestly thought it was all over. Right off, from the way Roger was avoiding his gaze in the locker room it was pretty obvious that whatever friendship they once had was gone. After that Novak switched into competitor mode, it was really all he could do to hold himself together.

_The first set was a mess, Roger stealing it easily. Novak was rather proud of himself for maintaining his game face, but it took nearly thirty minutes into the match for him to stifle his inner turmoil enough to actually play some decent tennis. He was almost content with letting the match slip away, too distracted from watching Federer for a reaction to care much. This was the first time in over a week that the Swiss man had allowed Novak to be near him for an extended period of time and it was tortuous how little attention he gave the Serb. Novak found himself questioning every glance that Roger sent his way._

_Was it simply a competitive sneer? Or was he trying to say something? ‘Probably “I hate you,”’ Novak thought bitterly. Then he made the less dramatic rationalization that Roger was too polite to spurn him over something like this, it was more likely that he would just never speak to Novak again. Sure he’d be appropriately polite in public and give him the same respect that Roger kindly bestows on every man on the tour, but he was certain that there would be no more 'in private’ moments to worry about…ever again._

_Those thoughts plagued him throughout the first set making it almost impossible to serve or return efficiently. There was one moment that changed everything for Novak in the match, ripped him from his thoughts and made him play his half-broken little heart out. It was a bad approach shot, that Novak knew, but he had to keep coming in to net after that, he couldn’t just stay in no-man’s-land._

_The obvious shot would’ve been hard and right at him. It was just aggressive enough to send a message to the opponent and at that range it would take a cheetah’s lightning-fast reflexes to get the ball back, and even then it would be nothing more than a weak reply that could easily be put away. Every player knew that, and Roger was certainly capable of the shot, but instead he hit a simple passing shot attempt down the line that Novak easily smacked back with a backhand volley._

_He looked up at Roger in surprise, why didn’t he take the shot? Roger wasn’t looking at him, but he didn’t seem broken up about losing the point either. When he did happen to look up, Novak saw him shrug in a way that he could only interpret as ‘I don’t care’ or maybe even ‘you weren’t worth it.’ That enraged Novak, despite the fact that he wasn’t really putting up much of a fight on court. Ignoring him was one thing, taking advantage of his mental disarray to win the match too, but holding back his best game like Novak was some wimpy junior fresh on the tour was another. ‘How dare he!’ Novak yelled inwardly, unsure whether he was more angry or hurt by Roger’s actions._

_After that he was on fire, shutting down Roger with renewed cause. He made this match personal and there was no chance in hell that Novak was going to let Roger underestimate him. No matter how far he was down, this was Novak’s match now. Federer didn’t have a chance._

_Novak made a huge comeback, winning all but two games in the second set. He made himself forget who he was playing, block out who it was on the other side of the court. Novak didn’t even notice when he started with the ‘come on!’ taunts, but when he did realize he was doing it, he didn’t make an effort to stop. He knew that is what Roger disliked most about him, the flagrant arrogance, and if Roger wasn’t his friend anymore then he had no reason to hold back._

_Novak thought briefly that he was taking it too far when Roger kicked a ball he’d just missed into the net at a nearby ball boy. Not directed at him enough to actually hit the boy, but close enough to startle him. Roger didn’t even apologize, or look sorry. It was alarming, so out of character that Novak was hesitant to continue. Was he angry because he was losing? Or was his dislike for Novak so strong that he couldn’t stand to be close to him for this long?_

_Federer was making more mistakes than Novak had ever seen. He was usually such a clean player, but in this match it was unusual for a rally **not** to end in an error from Roger. Just three games into the third set, three awfully played games, Roger smashed his racket on the ground, easily breaking the frame in one swing. Novak was shocked, beyond shocked even, Roger hadn’t smashed a racket since his junior days! Novak felt horrible, not because he was winning so easily, or even that he probably provoked Roger’s outburst with his unnecessary fist pump as the ball hit the net, but because he could almost feel Roger’s pain as he cried out in anger. _

_After that the match flew by, or rather Novak made it fly and Roger didn’t stop him. The pace was fast and hurried because Novak knew Roger wanted to get out of there, needed to get out and he couldn’t find it in himself to deny him that. It was soon over and Novak looked up at the clock, one hour and forty-six minutes ‘of torture’, Novak added inwardly._

_He had come into the match with hope, thinking that maybe Roger hadn’t really been avoiding him, or even if he had that it was because he didn’t know how to approach him, or what to say. Less than two hours later it was obvious that Roger wanted nothing to do with him. Novak tried with all his might to be strong, at least until he could have a proper break down, later in the privacy of his hotel room._

_The walk to the net was one of the longest of his life and Novak wasn’t sure what would happen when he got there. If it were any other player in his position, they would just walk away into the locker room, forget the customary handshake, but this was Roger and he wouldn’t do that, would he? Novak got to the net first and he waited, watching Roger for any sign of fleeing._

_Finally he was there. They held each other’s glance for several moments before Roger took his hand, squeezing gently. The look on his face was unreadable and Novak envied him for his ability to pull on a stoic mask. Novak was sure his inner despair was written all over his face for everyone to see, not that Roger cared anymore. The Swiss man released his grip and they walked toward the chair umpire. Novak knew he should leave it alone, let Roger walk away and forget it all, but there was something he just had to say._

_“I’m sorry,” he whispered so softly that it might’ve been lost in the roar of the crowd, but at least he had said it._

_He went straight to his room after that, hardly acknowledging anyone from his camp that congratulated him on the way, and breezing past Murray with his suggestion that they go to a pub to celebrate. ‘Celebrate what?’ he thought grimly, ‘losing everything?’ Sure, it was dramatic, especially considering that their friendship had only started a month ago, but that’s how he felt. Looking at Andy as he rattled off excuses for why he couldn't go to the pub, Novak wondered if he would feel so devastated if Murray ended their friendship. The fact that he was working his way toward that outcome with the walls he was building between them didn't seem to bother him in the same earth-shattering way as Roger's most recent rejection_.

_Novak stretched out across his bed, cradling his right hand. His room wasn’t particularly cold, but for some reason his hand was chilly. He thought vaguely that his hand was missing the heat of Roger’s warm grasp, just like he was missing the Swiss man, but he stifled those thoughts quickly. It didn’t matter anymore what he or his hand wanted, Roger wasn’t coming back. Still he kept to the right side of the bed, the same side he laid on when Roger was there, and ran his hand along the bedspread. It was the same movement his hand had made along Roger’s chest right before the fateful moment when he ended their friendship with that stupid kiss. It was almost cruel that as soon as Novak decided that he liked Roger, there was no chance of anything happening between them again._

Novak smiled as he thought back on the day before, a luxury he had now that everything turned out okay. He had laid on that bed for hours before the knock came, and even then he almost ignored it. He didn’t want to talk to his team again and he hadn’t ordered anything from the hotel. There was only one person Novak wanted to see, and he was pretty sure both Santa Claus and the tooth fairy were more likely visitors than Roger Federer. Never was he so delighted to be wrong.

“What the hell are you smirking about?” Alon asked as the building came into view. “You’re already twenty minutes late for your warm up session. Bobby won’t be happy,” he chided. True, Novak’s hitting partner would surely be upset by his tardiness, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel too bad. Nothing could bring him down on a day like this, not even a surly hitting partner.

   
\-------------------------------

“Where the hell have you been?” Bobby asked as he walked on court. “Murray’s been warming up for almost an hour!”

“Maybe he’ll tire himself out,” Novak joked, pulling out his racket and jogging over to his side of the court. Bobby kept his place by the net. He looked cross with his eyebrows furrowed and a definite frown. It looked strange against his otherwise soft features and curly blond hair, somehow making him look even more like a child, he was only seventeen after all.

“Don’t be mad. We got stuck in traffic. Nothing we could do…” Novak explained, hoping that the kid would get over it quickly so they could hit. He was going to have enough trouble concentrating on the match, Novak didn’t need his game to be faulty too.

“Fair enough,” Bobby said, shrugging as he walked to his side of the court. It was hard for him to stay mad at Djokovic, especially since the Serb was doing him a favor. He was what…number 470 on tour? The only chance he had at moving up was by practicing with someone as good as Novak, taking his advice, watching him play, picking up moves. Though his coach had warned him, the Djokovic attitude he could do without mimicking.

Looking over at the Serb, Bobby wondered where the hell that attitude had wondered off to today. Maybe it was just him, but Novak seemed friendlier. He was almost polite when Bobby asked why he was late, when usually his response would be something along the lines of "fuck off." His glance was less predatory, and his smile looked almost genuine. ‘What is going on with him?’ Bobby wondered as he started a rally, knowing he wouldn’t get that answer. Novak never talked to him about his personal life, only tennis.

\-----------------------------------

“Where have you been?” Mirka asked as Roger jogged up to his room, she was just about to knock on his door.

Roger thought quickly, well aware that he was wearing yesterday’s post match clothes. “I, uh,” he paused, catching his breath as they walked into the room. “I went for a jog. The beach looked so nice.” He hoped she wouldn’t look down at his shoes, which were obviously free of sand. Why did he have to add that last part? A jog was just fine.

“In your warm ups from yesterday?” she asked skeptically, and for a moment he thought he was caught.

He shrugged, trying to be casual. “I fell asleep in them,” Roger said, looking down at his outfit. “Thought I might as well wear these clothes again instead of getting another pair dirty.”

Mirka smiled, satisfied with his explanation, especially since she was the one who usually did the laundry when they were at home. She took his quick excuse as him being considerate and usually he would feel quite bad about that, but it was a narrow escape and he couldn’t help but feel a little proud knowing that he is an awful liar and he somehow successfully talked his way out of another situation.

“Well shower up quickly and I’ll pack up your stuff,” Mirka suggested happily, swatting Roger playfully on the ass and pushing him lightly in the direction of the bathroom. He smiled and rushed off to take a quick shower, dreading the trip to Switzerland slightly less. If she was going to be pleasant, then maybe he could too.

 ---------------------------

Roger kept checking his phone, waiting for the results to be posted online. He tried not to act as nervous as he felt. If Novak lost, would he blame Roger for impulsively coming to his room? _And keeping him up for half the night_ , Roger thought with a smirk, tension seeping away as he thought about the previous night.

“What are you smiling about?” Mirka asked happily, running her hand along his arm. Roger felt a chill down his spine when he realized that his _girlfriend_ had her hand in the very same place that Novak’s room number had been scribbled only hours earlier. Even now under his jacket there was some ink residue that he wasn’t quite able to scrub away, or maybe he didn’t want it all the way gone. He smiled hesitantly. “Just glad to be going home, I guess,” he explained shadily.

“Me too,” she said lightly. He knew it was true. Mirka had only come home for two days last time and ever since she had been anxious to return.

After one more sly check of his phone, which told him nothing of the finals match score, Roger settled into his seat. It was nap time. He’d promised himself that he would go back to sleep as soon as he left Novak’s room, that was the only way he could pry himself from the comforts of the bed, but by the time he’d left there was no time. Now he had nothing but time, ten whole hours of it.

 ----

_Roger woke briefly with a weight on his chest and a strong arm around his waist. From the soft moonlight pouring in through the sheer curtains Roger could tell it was very early in the morning, though it must be at least four because he felt quite rested and they didn’t actually get to sleep until around two. He looked down at Novak’s fluffy mess of hair that was soft against his shoulder. Roger couldn’t quite see the Serb’s face.  
  
He shifted slightly, intentionally causing Novak to adjust in his sleep. Novak’s head was now on his pectoral muscle, which he suddenly wished was more developed and the Serb had a leg draped over his. It was a surprisingly comfortable position and Roger smiled at the man next to him. Novak looked younger like this, he observed, innocent in a way that Roger had never seen him. He pulled Novak closer and let his eyes fall closed. He whispered softly, “Novak.” _

“What?” Mirka shrieked, bolting up from where she was laying against his shoulder. Roger’s eyes flashed open as realization dawned on him. Did he really say it out loud?

“Huh?” he said lamely, forcing himself awake. Roger wanted nothing more than to go back to that forgotten memory from last night.

“You just said Novak?!” she exclaimed in what sounded like a horrified tone, though somehow quiet enough not to disturb the other passengers.

“I was dreaming,” he said, taking on a hazy tone, “about that match yesterday. Still can’t get it out of my head.” Her face softened and a smile formed.

“Aww, baby. It was just an off day. Everybody has them sometimes…” Mirka said soothingly, but her words were lost on him yet again. He survived another one, and this one was far too close.

Roger let her baby him for the remainder of the flight. He knew she always felt closer to him in these moments, when he actually accepted her comfort and encouragement. Mirka felt needed and for some reason that was important to her, so he let her hug him close and pretend that everything was okay between them. God knows they would need to perfect the act before her parents’ anniversary party in two days…

\--------------------------------------

“What’s going on with you?” Murray asked as he redressed, looking at his friend with slight concern.

“What do you mean?” Novak asked, his voice muffled by the towel he was using to dry his hair.

“Well you’ve been kind of distant lately,” Andy said, looking at his feet as he spoke, obviously uncomfortable.

“Yeah, well, I’ve just been busy I guess,” Novak replied awkwardly. Novak knew this conversation would happen eventually. He used to spend so much time with Andy at tournaments and it saddened him to think that this was the first time they’d spent any time together, other than the five minutes he spent the day before claiming to be too sick and tired and busy to go for a drink with Murray. Even worse, he was so consumed in his _thing_ with Roger that he hadn’t even cared much that he was neglecting his best bud. Suddenly, he cared very much and was desperate to make amends.

“Right,” Murray said, nodding his head in understanding. He knew Novak’s life got more hectic as soon as he won a Slam. That always happens. More sponsorship deals, which means more mandatory appearances and photo shoots. Novak wouldn’t mention that part, the reason why he was too busy. Djokovic knew better than anyone how badly Andy wanted a Slam, and how much pressure his country put on him to get one. Novak might seem blunt and uncaring to tennis fans, but Andy knew better. “Well maybe when your schedule lightens up…” Andy suggested hesitantly.

“Definitely,” Novak replied quickly. “I’m in Serbia this week, but I haven’t got anything planned for Dubai.”

Murray nodded, obviously happy with their tentative plans. “Great,” he said with a smile. “Well I’m off to the vultures, wish me luck.” Novak did and Murray left for the press conference. Novak, luckily, was exempted. They only wanted to talk to the winner this time and somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care that it wasn’t him.

\-------------  
  
Buzz.

Novak happily jogged across his room to his vibrating phone. _Finally._ It was just over an hour since he left the stadium, but Novak had been anxiously awaiting some sort of communication from Roger. “Save me a seat,” the message read and Novak was utterly confused. Upon reexamination he saw it was from Jelena, not Roger. She wanted him to save her a seat at the Serbian athlete meeting. “Will do,” he texted back angrily, knowing it was completely unfounded. She just had terrible timing and totally got his hopes up that his _currently undefined friend_ actually wanted to talk to him.

Two hours later Novak was certain that Roger was upset with him because he lost. _Does he only want me when I’m winning?_ He asked himself, choosing not to acknowledge that even his inner voice sounded insecure at the thought. Here he was, so damn giddy over one night with Roger that he’d hardly paid attention to his match at all, and now Roger’s not speaking to him because of it.

Buzz.   
  
_Or maybe not..._

“Did I make you lose? **:/** "

Novak smiled brightly, as if there was someone in the room to actually see it.

“Nope, I’m pretty sure it was _me_ that made _you_ lose,” he quipped back.

“Haha, true. I better not hear you blame lack of sleep in any interviews though :)”

Novak smiled. He knew the media had teasingly labeled him ‘the king of excuses,’ but somehow when Roger poked fun at the same habit it didn’t bother him so much. Probably because Federer was just being playful, the media was saying it to be mean.

“No no. Murray won fair and square. I admit it,” he replied. If it were any other opponent, he might have listed off a couple of reasons why the win wasn’t entirely legit, but not Murray. He respected the Brit too much for that.

“That’s oddly mature of you. Since when are you Mr. Sportsmanship?” Novak rolled his eyes, answer forming already.

“That would be you. I’m just being nice to my best friend.”

“What about me? :( ” Novak smirked, knowing that Roger would never say something like that in person. It was too desperate, even in the joking way he meant it. _I guess people really are more courageous in texts_ , Novak thought vaguely, wondering if he too were more confident on the phone, or if he could get any more confident.

“You’re a different kind of friend than Murray =P” Novak teased, wishing he could prove it to Roger right then. But he was hundreds of miles away...and with his girlfriend.   
  


 -------------------------------------------------- 


	9. Chapter 9

“It’s so good to see you, Roger!” Mirka’s mother greeted him with a hearty hug and a light kiss on the cheek, immediately wiping away her lipstick mark from his skin. “We weren’t sure you’d be able to make it.”  

Roger smiled brightly at her as she released him. “Good to see you too, Karolina. I couldn’t miss this celebration. Congratulations.”

“Oh, thank you darling,” Karolina said, beaming at him with joy. “I remember the tennis tour very well, dear. They are not interested in family get-togethers, or time off in general for that matter.”

Roger nodded in agreement. Unless a player was in the hospital or bones were broken, the ATP would not be very accepting of missed tournaments. Luckily, Roger had the luxury of being a top player, not many officials would be willing to question him, as long as he wasn’t being unreasonable. Mirka’s father joined them, kissing his wife sweetly on the cheek as he approached.

“What a lovely necklace,” Andrej joked, indicating the impressively jeweled silver necklace Mirka was wearing. They all laughed, knowing that Roger had come to the Vavrinec jewelry store to pick out the birthday gift, with careful advice from Andrej. It was helpful to have a jeweler in the family, Roger thought, especially if your girlfriend is very picky about gifts. He could always go with the “well Andrej liked it” excuse if she didn’t like it, Mirka wouldn’t dare insult her father’s expert opinion. And most of the time, Andrej was one hundred percent right about what his daughter would like, Roger was far less accurate.

Karolina insisted that Mirka meet a friend of hers from gardening club, pulling her away and leaving Roger with Andrej. There were times in his life that Roger would fear moments alone with the Vavrinec patriarch, but the tension between them had long since ceased. Andrej was quite overprotective of his only daughter, and a young hotheaded tennis player wasn’t exactly the mate he had in mind for Mirka. But he’d calmed greatly since their first meeting and after many years of family gatherings, not to mention Roger’s great tennis success; Andrej now considers him part of the family. This was evident in the conversation he chose, not the awkward small talk they had shared for nearly two years, but man to man talk, in this case business.

“We are just waiting for that coffee shop next door to admit they’re broke so we can buy them out and expand the store,” Andrej shared happily, pleased with the success of his business. Roger nodded and smiled. He wasn’t much of a businessman; with most of his millions coming from tennis, Roger never needed a business strategy better than just try to win. As he listened to the man, Roger was pleased to note that with all the talk of expansion, no business pitch was made. It wasn’t uncommon for people to try to convince him to invest in various ideas, but Andrej would never do that. Not only was his business too prosperous to need help, but he respected Roger enough to not bother him with business propositions.

Roger saw the fondness in Andrej’s eyes as he spoke to him, and wondered vaguely when that had happened, when he began to see Roger as a son. For a moment he felt sickeningly guilty. Roger had sought Andrej’s approval for years and finally the man accepted him, trusted him with the love of his only daughter and it was just as the relationship was falling apart. Roger felt torn. The responsible side of him felt guilty beyond belief for breaking Andrej’s trust, and Mirka’s for that matter, but even in theory Roger was aware that his attachment to Novak was too strong now to just confess and move on. Instead, he prays that Andrej will never find out about his betrayal.

To his relief, Mirka eventually pulled him away to meet some of her “friends.” Roger soon found out that by _friends_  she meant every person there. Who knew she had so many friends? He did his best to be polite to the strangers, but after couple number fifteen Roger was exhausted and felt like a pawn. Was it really necessary for him to be introduced to every person Mirka has met? Or even sillier, casual acquaintances of her mother's that Mirka had only just met herself. One woman honestly explained that she had met Karolina at the grocery store and has only seen her a couple of times in passing since then. Why was this woman even at the party? The invitation said “an evening shared by family and intimate friends.”

Roger was relieved when Mirka wandered off to go have some “girl time” with a few of her friends. They sat around a table, drinking cocktails and gossiping. Roger was glad he wasn’t forced to join them. The husbands were sitting at a nearby table, looking bored and ready to leave. Roger was hesitant to join them too. It was always awkward for him to talk to a normal circle of men. Their typical topic of choice was sports and just his presence among them made everyone uncomfortable. He was already a sports icon, and his closest friends included the current ruler of the golf world and several football stars, mostly met through Nike or Gillette. The men were always on edge, trying very hard not to insult any players because they may be one of his friends, and Roger had to be careful not to share too much about any of his pals. It was just uncomfortable.

“Hey stranger,” a female voice chirped from behind him. He recognized it immediately. Before he even turned around he muttered, “Diana.”

“I come bearing gifts,” she said, handing him a glass of lemonade. He looked at it oddly, wondering why a beverage was a considered a gift, but accepting it nonetheless.

He felt a burning sensation run down his throat as he took a sip, fighting the urge to cough. “Woah,” he said as the feeling faded, the strong taste of residual alcohol overwhelming the citrus in his mouth. “That’s some lemonade.”

Diana smiled, leading him over to a pair of chairs far away from the crowd. “So what has my famous little brother been up to lately?” she asked kindly as they sat down. “Other than losing more often than usual?” Diana added wryly.

“Yes, tennis,” Roger said, watching as she rolled her eyes. There’s no way she would let him get by with such a simple answer. “It hasn’t been going well.”

“Why?” she asked. Diana was a fan of tennis, but unlike everybody else surrounding Roger, she didn’t know much about the game technically. If his forehand was off, or his serve was faulty, Diana probably wouldn’t be able to spot the problem. Roger always had to explain it to her.

“I’m not sure. I think it’s a stamina issue. I just get so tired on court,” Roger admitted. He had thought about it a lot lately, especially when he had to explain his many recent losses to his coaching team. Nobody could find anything wrong with his game; he was just slow and lethargic out there, which messed everything up.

“Have you talked to a doctor?” Diana asked, clearly concerned. Fatigue was never a good sign.

“No, it’s probably nothing. I just need to train more,” Roger said, backing away from the subject. He never liked doctors much, trainers were alright, but doctor’s always found a way to have bad news.

“Maybe you should check in with Doctor Lawson while you’re in town. Just to make sure,” Diana suggested carefully. She remembered all too well the tantrums her baby brother used to throw before doctor’s appointments, and how they continued well into his teen years, though with less tears and more swearwords. Roger noticed the concern in his sister and reluctantly agreed, as long as she promised not to tell their parents.

Diana thought she had solved whatever had been troubling her brother, but even after he had confessed that he hadn’t been feeling well, and agreed to get checked out, Roger still seemed troubled and distracted. What could it be?

“So other than sucking on court, what have you been up to?” Diana asked playfully, hoping to lighten the mood with humor. Roger smiled, but then a distant look overtook his features, he clearly was lost in thought.

Suddenly, the smile returned. “I don’t know, stuff,” he answered, effectively sounding like a twelve-year old.

Diana rolled her eyes, but allowed him to be vague…for now. She was more concerned about what was bothering him, there was definitely something he was trying to hide, and the psychotherapist side of her wouldn’t let it go. There was something different about Roger, and Diana would stop at nothing to figure it out after…

“And how’s the PR princess doing? I saw her introduce you to…well everyone but me and the parents,” said Diana snidely. It was Roger’s turn to roll his eyes. He knew Diana didn’t care for Mirka much, in all the years she had never tried to hide it. His parents had always assumed their daughter was jealous that Roger chose Mirka as his public relations manager instead of his sister, who had held the position previously. Roger knew better, but he would never tell his mom or dad.

Diana never wanted to be his manager or publicist, the only part of it she enjoyed was dealing with people. It had always been her dream to study psychology, preferably in America where the college curriculum was broader, but it wasn’t until Roger’s success that the family had the funds to fuel Diana’s dream. The true reason for her dislike was Mirka’s initial lack of interest in Roger. Diana was with him at all the pre-Olympic meetings as his manager; she knew immediately that Roger fancied Mirka and for several weeks it seemed that Mirka didn’t notice or care. It wasn’t until the Swiss team practiced together, and Mirka saw Roger play, saw his obvious potential, that she liked him. After that, Mirka very actively pursued Roger, and at that point he didn’t need much convincing. Months later they were inseparable and Roger carelessly brushed off Diana’s concerns, claiming that Mirka was never indifferent, just playing hard to get. The whole thing was still unsettling to Diana, even eight years later.

“Yes, I met them all. You know Mirka, a stranger is just a friend she hasn’t met yet,” Roger explained with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Right, so it wasn’t just her showing off her champion boyfriend to a bunch of strangers?” Diana asked with a mock inquisitive expression, obviously skeptical. Even Roger couldn’t deny that he was being used. These people might have thought meeting a former WTA player was mildly impressive, and chances are half these people are here to do just that, but meeting the man being labeled as the best the sport has ever seen, that is something to brag about at work the next day and Mirka was more than happy to provide them the opportunity.

“Eh, maybe,” Roger admitted and Diana looked at him with wide eyes. He never failed to defend Mirka, no matter how little the insult that Diana threw her way, and now he’s agreeing with her?

“Trouble in paradise?” Diana asked, more interested then she’d like to admit. But honestly, she’d been waiting years for a tiff between them big enough to send the relationship crashing down. It was horrible to wish something awful like that on her brother, but then again, the thought of Roger being with Mirka forever seemed pretty horrible too.

Roger looked at her for a long moment, seemingly sizing her up. Diana is a therapist, and she deals with other people’s problems all the time. Would it be so awful for him to force his problems on her too? Really, he knew that he needed to talk to someone about all this. Never before had his conscience failed him. Doing the right thing came naturally and he always trusted his first instinct. But now Roger knew he was in some limbo area between right and wrong, walking the thin line that separates them, and more than anything he just wanted to fall to one side. He looked around them cautiously, noticing that all the other guests were far away and otherwise occupied.

“Can you keep a secret?” he asked, watching Diana nod instantly with bright curious eyes. “Like a big secret?”

Diana rolled her eyes. “What do you think I do for a living?” she asked sarcastically, wondering what could possibly put her brother on edge like this, wasn’t he supposed to be the calm, rational one?

Roger shot her a look that said he wasn’t joking, and for a moment he looked like he was going to back out of this, to let the secret stay silenced. She wouldn’t let that happen. “Yes, I won’t tell,” Diana said honestly. Roger nodded and took a deep breath. Confession time.

\----------------------------

Novak entered the room, delighted to see Ana already waiting. She had a notebook out and a pen ready, making her look like a child in school, eager to copy down notes. Novak on the other hand, had brought only his wallet and phone, completely unconcerned with the necessary information they might be told. He figured one of the girls would write down anything useful.

“Ana,” Novak said softly, not wanting to disturb the other athletes who were scattered throughout the large room. She jumped slightly, not expecting someone to come up behind her.

“Oh, it’s just you. Nearly gave me a heart attack Nole. I was reading,” Ana said, pointing to the novel in her lap. “I saved you a seat.” She pointed to the office chair to her left where her purse sat, removing it so he could join her.

“Jelly wants a seat by us,” he said, placing his wallet, keys and phone on the table in front of the chair by his side, claiming the seat. Ana rolled her eyes and offered her purse to sit in the chair, knowing a few randomly scattered belongings were not enough to reserve a spot.

Once he’d settled into his place, Novak noticed Ana was staring at him expectantly. “What?” he asked, ruffling with his hair nervously.

“You’re not going to offer me an update?” Ana asked bouncily. “Considering last time we talked your life seemed quite…interesting.”

Novak smiled. Now he understood. Why couldn’t she just say that? “Well we’re sort of together now,” Novak said, feeling a blush creep across his face and looking around the room defensively, daring someone to notice.

Ana’s eyes got wide and he could tell she wanted to squeal her happiness, but she refrained, mostly. “Yeeee. You have to tell me! When? How? I want to know _everything!_ ”

Novak looked at her strangely. _Is this how girls act when they talk about boys?_ He wondered vaguely, not quite admitting how intimidated he felt by all her questions. Didn't he just give her an update? Does she really need to know everything?

“Umm,” Novak said lamely, unsure where to start, or how much to tell. He felt a prickling on his shoulder, and Ana was looking past him, behind him.  
  
“Ahem,” he heard a soft female voice behind him. Novak rolled his eyes, turning to the voice with annoyance.

“Is someone sitting here?” asked a blond girl, indicating the seat beside him. He almost said no just to get rid of her, but remembered Jelena. “Yes,” Novak said simply, turning back toward a very surprised Ana.

How many times had Ana been with Novak when he picked up girls? Far too many to count. This girl was pretty, very pretty and yet, Novak didn’t even give her a second glance. If this meeting were a couple months ago, Ana was sure the blond girl would have Novak’s full attention, Ana and Jelena forgotten, but he didn’t give a damn about that girl, or any of the others who entered the room. Ana now realized how much Novak must care about this new guy in his life, enough to give up his libertine ways without thought. _He probably doesn’t even know how serious this is,_ she thought happily with no intent to tell him the extent of his fondness, at least not until he was hopelessly in love, then he could know. 

“You were just about to tell me about this boyfriend of yours,” she whispered, prompting him further to share. He looked around at the room which was getting crowded. Novak nodded toward her notebook and she handed it over, seemingly giddy with the idea of passing notes.

**He’s not my boyfriend.**

_  
But you said that you guys were together?_

**  
Well we kind of are. When we hooked up we both said we wanted to do it again. And we text all the time.**

_  
Sounds like boyfriends._ Ana wrote with a poignant look.

 **  
No, we’re not ready for that. It’s just friends** Novak thought for a moment. How was it that Roger put it? **with benefits.**

  
Ana sighed. If this guy was going to turn her best friend gay, the least he could do was claim him as a boyfriend, offer a bit of commitment. How childish is ‘friends-with-benefits’?

_Oh. Why?_

**  
Because I’m new to all this. I don’t know anything about the whole gay thing.**

_  
And he does?_

**  
I don’t think so. He has a girlfriend, remember?**

_  
She’s still around?_

**  
Yeah.**

Ana saw a little bit of hesitance cross Novak’s features and decided to stay away from the girlfriend subject. _So what changed? How did you get together?_

Novak smiled brightly, and grabbed the pen tight. He seemed to be thinking about what he should write, or maybe just thinking about the moment she was asking about. Either way it didn’t seem like she was going to get an answer. It’s funny how she’s heard him go into graphic details of his hook ups without care when he talks to Murray, but now he’s suddenly too smitten and shy to share. He would kill her if she pointed out how adorable he was right now, thinking of his guy. She wrestled the pen away from him.

_That good, eh?_

He looked down at the paper, picking up the pen. **Yeah, that good. Just when I thought he’d never talk to me again, he came to my hotel room.**

 _Hotel room? OMG did you do it with him?_ Ana wrote with renewed excitement. Had Novak really had hot-steamy-gay-sex and not told her?!

 **No!** He defended quickly, as if the thought of him rushing into sex with someone was completely out of character. **I wouldn’t even know what to do. We just kissed** he looked up at her, not forfeiting the pen. **All night** , he wrote, underlining it twice.

She smiled, looking as if she’d like nothing more than a front row ticket to that scene. Novak tried not to be freaked out, reminding himself that this is the sweet innocent girl he grew up with, not a creepy stalker who might hide out in his closet with a video camera.

Finally Jelena arrived, obviously out of breath from her hurry. Just as she sat down a group of men in business suits walked in, Novak recognizing one man as the Serbian Davis Cup coach. They started going on and on about rules and arrangements, Novak tuned them out, focusing instead on slyly capturing the soda bottle Jelena had brought, stealing a sip. She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe just didn’t care, too busy making flirty eyes at a guy across the table. Waterpolo? Novak inwardly guessed the man’s sport. He definitely had a swimmer's build. Ana pushed the notebook toward him, recapturing his attention.

_Sven’s gay. You should ask him about, you know, sex and stuff._

Novak almost laughed, he could tell how awkward it was for her to write that, probably only slightly more awkward than it was for him to read. But then he thought about the actual message. Maybe he would talk to Sven. From what he remembered the guy was fairly attractive and probably in his mid 30s, so he probably had enough experience to tell Novak the basics at least. If they ever got that far, Novak really didn’t want to seem like a bumbling idiot. Yeah, maybe he would ask Sven.

The meeting was over soon enough, none of them having heard much of what was said. They could always make one of their managers call for a recap later. The three Serb players moved out of the stuffy meeting room into the hallway. Most of the athletes had left quickly after they were done, only a few were still streaming past. The Serbs were vaguely aware that they were blocking most of the hallway but none of them made an effort to move. The girl who wanted to sit by Novak passed them, shooting him a death glare. Ana tried not to laugh, especially since Novak didn’t seem to notice her…again.

Novak grabbed Jelena’s drink, stealing another sip. She smacked his arm playfully, making him spill a bit on his shirt, but didn't steal it away. “I can’t believe you lost to Murray after that awesome win over Federer,” Jelena commented. Novak nearly choked on the drink when she mentioned Roger, coughing dramatically as he pushed the bottle back toward Jelena.

“Yeah because I so want it back now,” she teased, tossing it into a nearby trashcan. “After you spat in it.” Ana looked over him thoughtfully, but didn’t say anything.

A handsome man walked toward them choosing to squeeze between Novak and Jelena rather than walk around them. As he passed, the man looked directly at Novak, his body a bit closer to him than was necessary to get through. After he passed, the man turned back, looking at Novak again, his eyes raking over him with a smirk. Jelena turned to a very confused Novak.

“That guy was totally cruising you, Nole,” Jelena said excitedly.

“He was what?” Novak asked, even more confused. Cruising?

Jelena shook her head, ruffling with Novak’s hair affectionately in a way that said ‘it’s so cute that you don’t understand.’

“What?” he asked again as they turned to leave.

“Just stay away from the men’s room,” Jelena said with a wide smirk.

\--------------------------------------------

“Things haven’t been going so well with me and Mirka,” Roger admitted, the words sounding strange to him. Roger knew things were rocky, as did Mirka, but they never talked about it, both pretending that if they didn’t acknowledge the change it wasn’t there. Roger looked up, expecting to find a gloating look on his sister’s face, but instead he found concern and sadness, prompting him to continue. “For several months now we haven’t really been a couple.” He breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. “We only talk about tennis business, and we don’t sleep in the same bed when we’re traveling. I don’t even know what we are to each other anymore.”

Diana listened with a thoughtful expression, deeply considering his words and contemplating what she could do to help. “Do you still love her?” Diana asked carefully when she was sure he had finished explaining.

“Yes. But it feels different. I still care about her, of course, but the romantic feelings I once had are fading. I’m not even sure if they are there anymore.”

“So the passion is fading? Most couples go through that, around this time actually, the seventh year slump,” Diana said proudly, like she had solved a particularly important puzzle.

“It’s been fading for awhile though. I’m not even sure if I could say I’m in love with her anymore. A couple of years ago I was so sure of it, I could shout my feelings from the top of a skyscraper proudly for God and everyone to hear. Now I don’t think I could whisper it in a dark room. The untruthfulness would haunt me,” Roger said sadly, twirling the ice around in his glass anxiously. He had known his relationship with Mirka was quite possibly on its last leg for several months now, but it hadn’t bothered him so much until…

“And I met someone else,” Roger said, looking up hesitantly at his sister, watching the shock travel across her face. Of all the people in the world to cheat, Roger would be the last one imaginable, surely Diana was thinking that.

“You what?” she breathed, obviously trying to control the volume of her voice, not trusting it to stay between them.

“I didn’t mean to. Actually we’ve known each other for quite a while; it just never occurred to me that…” Roger defended.

“That you should cheat on your longtime girlfriend with her?” Diana interrupted, looking less shocked and slightly angry. How many patients had come to her before with this same problem, all claiming that they would never do such a thing, but when they met so-and-so they couldn’t help themselves. “God Roger, and here I was thinking you were the most honest guy out there,” she said, looking thoroughly disappointed.

She took a deep breath and looked like she was trying very hard to understand. “Other than Jim, of course,” Diana added in a lighter tone, pointing to her husband who was in the center of the husband group, chatting idly in a way that was far too similar to the gossiping ladies one table over.

Roger knew then that she was joking, poking fun lovingly at her often clueless husband, and he felt more at ease. Roger knew that it was only Diana’s general dislike of Mirka that was keeping her from beating him with her designer purse, that and she didn’t want a bloodstain on her bag.

Roger impulsively decided to take it a step further. “With him,” he corrected, expecting the full brunt to hit him now. Instead she seemed to relax, even smiled, quite possibly her most puzzling action in all twenty-seven of their years together.

“You aren’t going to freak out?” Roger asked with genuine confusion. She shook her head. “Why? I certainly freaked out about it...”

She interrupted. “You know, all those years I wanted a gay best friend, and for awhile I thought you might be...” He looked at her oddly. “ _Now_ you tell me?! Do you know how much fun we could’ve had looking for guys? But no, you wait until I’m married, and you, well you’re practically married too. And now you have a boyfriend!”

Roger paused, wondering if he should correct her. He didn’t think of himself as gay, this was still pretty new to him and so far he’s only been attracted to one guy. And he was definitely not married, not even practically married. A couple years ago he wouldn’t have minded marrying Mirka, but now he could only think about their constant bickering, wondering if it could actually get worse. And then there was Novak, who he probably should think of as a boyfriend, but for some reason he had strayed away from that label when they discussed it. Was he really allowed to have a boyfriend and girlfriend at the same time? Probably not.

Roger noticed that Diana was still talking, now commenting on his “unnatural keenness for fashion” and “occasional dramatics” and “all the crying” that should’ve been clear signs. _At least she’s accepting_ , he thought amusedly, wondering if it was the demise of his relationship with Mirka, or his newfound homosexuality that had put her in such a good mood, either way it was sort of creepy.

“So you’re okay with this?” Roger asked, hesitantly interrupting her.

“Well, as your sister I am delighted that you are taking steps away from your current relationship which you know I’ve never been fond of. But as a therapist I think it’s a risky move. This could change your whole life Roger,” she said, looking at him sympathetically.

“It’s already changing my life. All of a sudden I’m lying to Mirka, and whenever something happens to me, my first instinct is to tell him about it, like it’s not real until he knows. I couldn’t even bring my phone today because I knew I would just text him all day. At my girlfriend’s parent’s party I’d be texting my boyfriend. And even when I was talking to Andrej, feeling so guilty about going behind her back, I knew that I couldn’t give him up.”

Roger paused, hearing his own words and feeling the same shock that was written across his sister’s face. Did he really care for Novak that much? And wait, did he just say boyfriend?  
  
"You know, it's weird how even when you screw up I can't hate you for it. Suddenly discovering that you're gay is probably the only acceptable reason to cheat. Certainly better than all the others I've heard..." Diana went on, vaguely noticing that Roger wasn't really listening, but not really minding.  
  
“Should I tell her?” Roger said in a shaky voice, looking over to Mirka. 

“I wouldn’t,” Diana replied softly, noting how vulnerable he seemed right now. No way would she send him over to a shark like Mirka in that state. Roger looked at her, confused. He was expecting to be told he had to tell her, it wasn’t fair to her if he kept lying. “If you were seeing a woman behind her back, then yes, you would have to tell her. But since it’s a guy, well I would wait until you’re sure.”

“Until I’m sure? Sure of what?”

“Until you’re sure that this isn’t a phase that you’re going through. What if you break up with her now and then realize a couple months down the road that you’re not actually into blokes? Then you’ve ruined a relationship _and_ you’re alone. Have you had sex with him yet?” she asked bluntly, surprising her baby brother. They never talk about sex, not since they were teenagers and their parents gave them "the talk" together.

“Uh, no,” he said awkwardly, hoping she wouldn’t inquire further. She did.

“But you have been intimate with him, right? This isn’t just a friendship you’d like to take further but haven’t done anything yet?”

“No, we’ve uh, done stuff,” Roger said, feeling a blush cover his cheeks and wondering where his vocabulary had wandered off to.

“Well after you have sex with him, that’s when you should reconsider. Will you tell me?” Diana asked, looking at him expectantly, daring him to say no.

“I guess?” he tried, wondering why she needed to know.

“This is a difficult situation, Roger, and I’d like to help you through it, but I can’t make these decisions for you. I wouldn’t even think of helping except that you looked happier than I’ve seen you in months just now when you were talking about him.”

Roger blushed deeper somehow, feeling like he had just been called out on his crush. It was true, Novak seemed to make him happy, and after months of feeling awful as his tennis game and relationship declined, he’d take all the happiness he could get.

“So when do you see him next?” Diana asked, returning to her far too curious self.

“Munich, next week,” Roger said, thinking back to what Novak had texted him earlier, it seemed the Serb knew his schedule better than he did sometimes.

“You’ll both be in Munich?” Diana was catching on. “So he’s a tennis player too?”

Roger nodded. “You’re not going to tell me who?” she asked, flashing him her best innocent look. “What good is a big giant secret if you don’t know it all?”

Roger thought about it for a moment, it wouldn’t hurt to tell her everything. And plus, he really wanted to tell someone.

“You really want to know?” he teased, knowing she was on the edge of her seat waiting.

“Yes! Just tell me already!” Diana said a bit too loudly. He gave her a look that warned not to do that again. “Fine,” she responded, motioning that her lips were zipped, she even threw away the key like she used to when they were kids.

Roger leaned in close and whispered, “Novak Djokovic." She nearly fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of new "characters" in this chapter.  
> The Vavrinec parents' names I couldn't find so I chose ones that sounded Slovakian, which I think is where they are originally from. And then there is Jelena who I admit I don't know much about her outside of her game, but I imagined her to be a bit more edgy and street smart than her Serbian tennis counterparts, whereas Ana is pure sweetness. And then there is Diana who I don't know much about but kind of liked writing. Roger needed a confidante. Oh, and Sven who was actually Ana's coach at this time. He's probably not gay, but here he is. We'll see him again and I'll go into more detail.  
> Hopefully these impressions are somewhere in the ball park of the real people's personalities. Oh and sorry for the Mirka hating. It'll get better, I promise, but for now she kind of has to be intolerable.


	10. Chapter 10

Roger awoke with the strange sensation of limited breathing. He was drowning in a sea of pineapple-scented something that was both smothering him and scratching at his face. It was overwhelmingly fruity, and ultimately unbearable, pulling him from his blissful dream of being elsewhere.

As he pried his eyes open, Roger found himself in an unfamiliar environment. When his brain finally woke up, he remembered why he was in this common motel room, lying in a ridiculously cramped double-size bed, being smothered by what he could now identify as Mirka’s hair.

Sweeping the locks aside, Roger noticed that Mirka was in the center of the bed, leaving him nearly falling off his end. He could only assume that she had tried to move closer to him during the night, and he had retreated. Ignoring that even in his subconscious state he rejected his girlfriend’s advances, Roger instead focused on how it was probably best that she didn’t get too near him, considering he had been reliving that wonderful morning in Miami with Novak while in dreamland. Roger punched his pillow in frustration, though not hard enough to wake Mirka. It seemed like every time he shut his eyes, Roger was back in that hotel room with Novak; and as lovely as it was to relive a memory that was quickly becoming one of his favorites, it was also dangerous and almost always left him frustrated. Just as it had happened that morning, in his dream they never got to finish.

Though he had very little control over his dreams, Roger knew how dangerous it was to be dreaming such things in such close proximity to Mirka, who was probably growing suspicious of him already. Roger had already slipped up once in his slumber, and luckily made a very narrow escape, but that wouldn’t be so easy this time. It had been nearly two weeks since he lost in Miami, and they were gearing up for a new tournament, as far as Mirka knew, he had no reason to still be thinking of Djokovic, and yet, the Serb was pretty much all Roger thought about this whole vacation.

Roger pried himself from the warmth of the bed, wishing that he had slippers on to protect his feet from the many diseases that were surely lurking in the grubby indoor-outdoor carpet of the motel. Mirka stirred slightly by his side, enough to startle Roger who was walking around in just boxers, his morning erection fairly obvious. Pulling on yesterday’s jeans, Roger tiptoed around the bed toward the bathroom.

Fluorescent light filled the bedroom as Roger opened the door, cursing himself for leaving the light on the night before and watching as Mirka’s eyes fluttered open. _Damn,_ Roger thought as he painted on a smile of acknowledgement, noticing vaguely that she still looked incredibly tired. _Maybe she didn’t sleep well either._

Roger felt guilty. She didn’t have to come with him to Munich early, and stay in this dingy hotel until the suites were ready. God knows if there is one person who is more of a princess than him about proper hotel accommodations it’s Mirka, and yet here she is, looking more tired and sad than Roger can remember seeing her. He approached the bed slowly and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I have to get ready for the meeting, you sleep,” Roger said kindly, watching as his simple gesture cheered her up.   
   
If there was anything Roger noticed during their terribly awkward two weeks home together, it was how thoroughly he’d been neglecting Mirka. Rather than acknowledge their ailing relationship, he pushed her away and ignored her, something Diana had warned him not to do. Her most surprising advice in their garden chat was that no matter how strained things got between him and Mirka, Roger shouldn’t ignore her or make her feel unwanted. Instead, he should focus on keeping things positive, and try to see her as more of a good friend than a disgruntled girlfriend. It was worth trying…

“Do you want me to come with you?” Mirka asked, sitting up to prove she could be ready in moments if he needed her, or maybe she was just desperate to get out of this room.

“No, I already know how it will go. No use in us both losing sleep for it,” Roger said, running his hand calmly through the hair that nearly suffocated him just minutes ago. He could feel her relax under his touch, and eventually slip back to sleep. Glancing at the clock, Roger saw that it was later than he thought and his shower would have to be cut short. _Damn_ , Roger thought as he undressed, being reintroduced to his straining erection. _Cold shower it is._

As the icy water washed over him, Roger felt disappointment flood his body just as harshly. It was almost cruel how many times his mornings started this way recently, hiding out in the bathroom to take care of the erection he didn’t want his girlfriend to know he had. Ever since they got to Switzerland, Mirka had been trying to sleep with him, especially after talking to her stupid friends at that party. As strange as it sounds, Roger had been coming up with excuses left and right to avoid having sex with her. No matter what they did that day, he claimed to be tired, or came up with some random errand that needed to be taken care of, even at ten o’clock at night. If he was lucky, she believed him, or at least assumed he was having some problems down there, which was admittedly better than her figuring out what was really going on.

Roger threw on his clothes haphazardly, well aware that he would be late for his meeting with the ATP executives. He wasn’t nervous about that, surely they wouldn’t mention it to him, but the fact that they controlled if he got to play the next few weeks of tournaments concerned him. Roger thought of his trip to the doctor, trying to remember anything that might help him plead his case. No way was he willing to miss Munich.

\-------------------------------------------

_Roger sat in the waiting room for over two hours while his test results were being processed. Typically the doctor would just call in the results later that week, but since he was a special client they were willing to put a rush on his tests. It was nerve-wracking to just sit around waiting; hardly the V.I.P. treatment they thought was being provided._

_After flipping through every remotely interesting magazine, Roger was officially bored out of his mind. He had come across a copy of TENNIS magazine, but after the second story about his disappointing start to the year, he left it abandoned on the table, still open to the offensive page. It wasn’t until an elderly lady acknowledged it that his attention returned to the magazine._

_“Handsome, isn’t he?” the woman said sweetly, pointing to the open page. Roger looked down to find Novak’s picture staring up at him, clad in green Adidas gear from head to toe, bringing out the green in his hazel eyes. Roger smiled and nodded, handing the magazine over to the woman, who apparently didn’t realize that he was **the** Federer they were talking about on the opposite page. _

_It was kind of ironic that the magazine had put him and Novak so close together, and for a moment Roger convinced himself that they **knew** somehow. It wasn’t until he saw the last part of the article from over the old lady’s shoulder where they spoke of his huge loss to Djokovic in Miami that he understood why the Adidas ad accompanied the story on him. They were trying to be clever. Guess who has beaten Federer lately? Djokovic, here’s a picture of him.   
   
Roger was amused to find that the woman flipped through the all the pages, only pausing on pictures of Novak. She didn’t even seem to know his name, passing over the many stories on "the Rise of Novak Djokovic" and focusing solely on his pictures. _

_“I think I just met your biggest fan :)” Roger texted teasingly. The woman didn’t seem to notice he was observing her as she found a full page ad of Novak hugging his Head racket and ripped it out slowly, slipping the page into her purse._

_“Talking about yourself? =P” Novak quipped back and Roger smiled, expecting nothing less than a cocky reply, somehow the attitude no longer bothered him._

_“Hah you wish. This lady just ripped your picture out of a magazine and stuffed it in her purse.” Just as Roger tattled on her, the woman was called into the patient rooms and he was left in the waiting room alone. Roger retrieved the magazine and opened it to one of the Djokovic ads that remained. Somehow it comforted him to see Novak while texting him, he could almost pretend that they were actually speaking, something he just realized he missed doing, talking to Novak…in person._

_“Why do I always attract the crazies?” Novak asked. Roger could just picture him making puppy dog eyes to prove the unfairness._

_“Maybe because you act so crazy on court =P” Roger wrote playfully._

_“Ha ha. Says the racket thrower…”  Novak joked._

_“That was one time! Don’t act like you don’t lose your cool” Roger defended, surprised that the incident didn't even bother him anymore._

_“I’m always cool. You see. I go on court right now and be Mr. Cool.”_

_Roger wished he would be able to see Novak’s match, but none of the sites were streaming Dubai live and there was no chance he’d be able to tune in at the motel with Mirka there. He could only hope that some dope in the stands would think the match was significant enough to put up on YouTube._

_“Mr. Federer?” The nurse asked to the empty waiting room, as if she didn’t already know who he was. There was that type of fan, the kind that pretends they don’t know who you are so they won’t seem stalkerish and uncool, but are secretly obsessed. **Yup,** Roger thought as he passed through the door, noticing the nervous giddiness in her eyes. **She’s one of them.**_

_It wasn’t long before Dr. Morgan joined him in the exam room, with a slightly grim expression on her face. **Dammit. They found something.**_

_“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” she started, and just as Roger opened his mouth to reassure her that he didn’t mind, Dr. Morgan continued, “But we did find the problem.”_

_“Great. What’s wrong?” Roger asked anxiously, steadily growing more nervous as Dr. Morgan delayed._

_“You tested positive for Mononucleosis, a variation of the Epstein-Barr virus. One of the major symptoms of Mono is chronic fatigue, which you described experiencing…” Roger’s mind trailed off halfway through her explanation. **Mono? Like the kissing disease?** Roger thought anxiously. From what he could tell from the random bits of information entering his brain, Roger had been infected for months, probably before the Australian Open. Just the thought of “the kissing disease” sent his mind into a flurry. Who knows how he got it, especially that long ago, God knows he hadn’t kissed Mirka much lately, but that was the least of his worries. If this thing was spread by kissing, there is a chance he infected Novak._

_“Is it still contagious?” Roger interrupted. Dr. Morgan smiled at him and shook her head, explaining that there is a very small window of potential infection, and if the timeline is accurate, Roger was contagious around the same time he had food poisoning. Roger was relieved, but more than a little bit bothered by the knowing smile Dr. Morgan was wearing. He knew exactly what she was thinking. **‘It’s so cute how worried he is about infecting Mirka, what a relief that he was vomiting profusely during the contagious period.’** For a moment he wanted to tell her off, set things straight that he couldn’t care less if Mirka had Mono too, would fatigue really matter much for the life of a manager? Would this lady still be wearing that stupid smirk if she knew it was really his **boyfriend** he was concerned for? No, like everyone else in this country, Dr. Morgan was enamored by Switzerland’s golden couple, and for once it made Roger sick. For someone so smart, she didn't know anything._

_With a prescription, some treatment advice and a promise to send the results to the ATP doctors as always, Roger left, highly frustrated with this whole day and dreading the next few. Did he really need one more thing to deal with? And then there was telling Mirka, who would probably be appropriately concerned, only lazily veiling her frustration that he would have to cut back on his activities outside of tennis. Predictable, yes, just like everything else about them, he already knew what their fight would be like._

_Buzz.  
   
Roger nearly leapt out of his skin when the device moved in his hand, he didn't even know he was still holding it. _

_“You see? I can win and be cool.”_

_Suddenly, his day wasn’t so bad._

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

“So these are the new digs, eh? Monogrammed pillows and all,” Allison joked, roaming around Roger’s hotel suite.

“We’re testing out the new logo for The Roger Federation products,” Mirka explained sharply, with a glare that told the publicist to get to the point.  
  
"So how did the meeting go, Rog? Suspended from play?" Allison asked, half joking, half concerned. Mirka scoffed, clearly furious at the girl for stalling. "I'm not allowed to inquire into the well-being of my employer?" she asked innocently.  
  
"I'm fine," Roger replied quickly, not giving Mirka a chance to respond. "I can choose one tournament to back out of this season without penalty. Apparently a couple of other players have mono too. At least one other top player they said, probably something we picked up from a water jug at one of the tournaments."  
  
Allison smiled at him, happy to be informed, and to be dealing with him instead of Mirka. Sensing Mirka's patience was running out, Allison got to the point.  
  
“Okay so the reason I called is there is a new tennis website that is creating quite a buzz…”

“You called us about a website?” Mirka asked, tapping her foot in annoyance. Allison noticed.

“Hell yeah I did. This is a different kind of website. They specialize in watching players off court, finding out their dirty little secrets and sharing them with the public. They’ve only been up for a month, so not much damage done yet, but the media has taken notice,” Allison reported.

“Off court? Why do they want to know about us off court?” Roger asked, suddenly very concerned. He has a lot to hide these days.

“People are curious, and the fans love it. The stories aren’t very reliable, but they are certainly good at starting rumors. Bastards know how to do it legally too. Every “fact” they suggest ends in a question mark,” Allison paused, obviously impressed. “Only two stories about Roger, luckily. They are putting heavy focus on the top four though. Most famous I guess.”

“Does everyone know about this website?” Roger asked. When Mirka looked over at him questioningly, Roger added. “Like does Rafa and Roddick know?” Mirka seemed to relax. Of course he would care about his friends. He's such a "good guy."

“I’m sure everyone knows by now. Some reporters asked questions about one of the stories in Dubai. Totally caught the players off guard. Asked them if they’re really the drunken libertines that everyone thinks,” Allison gushed, highly entertained by the story. “After that fiasco, all the publicists checked out the site, made sure their player wasn’t getting slammed.”

“Drunken libertines? On the tennis tour?” Mirka scoffed, as if the idea was ludicrous.

“Yeah, Djokovic and Murray. Apparently quite the partiers. They had no problem finding pictures of them drunk off their asses and a list full of girls who claim to have slept with them. Glad I don’t work for them…”

Roger gulped, wondering if he actually dared to look at the site. “What’s the site called?”

“Tennis watch,” Allison replied. “I’ll email it to you.”

Roger thanked her, not at all looking forward to checking it out. This website is going to make his life much more complicated.

\-------------------------------------------------------

“We’ll show them drunk!” Murray slurred, raising his glass to toast with Novak.

“Yeah!” Nole agreed, taking a huge gulp of whatever beer was in his glass, at this point it didn’t really matter.

“Gentleman, these are from those ladies over there,” the bartender announced, pushing two shot glasses of golden liquid in their direction. Drinking them quickly, the boys headed in the direction of the giggling ladies.

“I call that one and the blond,” Andy said, pushing Novak slightly to get a head start. Novak smiled dopily, trying to keep his balance.

“Woah,” said a voice in his ear, two hands finding their way around his arms, holding him up until he could get his bearings. Looking up at the person who saved him from falling on his ass, Novak saw a familiar face.

“Nana!” She looked at him strangely. He tried again. “Nanada. Nadanada. Nana,” he went on.

“Alright alright. Enough of that. I guess I’m Nana for the night,” Ana said, pulling her friend toward a chair, his weight heavy on her shoulders. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked him once they were settled.

“I am drunk listerine, like they say. Muzzy libalryn too,” Novak said, pointing over to Andy who was surrounded by swooning women.

“Well Muzzy is not my problem. You know better than to go clubbing during a tournament. What’s wrong with you Nole?” Ana asked, reaching over to hold his hand reassuringly. “And don’t tell me it’s because of what those reporters said, they’ve said worse.”

Novak looked up at her and she could see sadness in his eyes, something she didn’t expect considering how happy he’d been lately. He pulled out his phone and the banner of Tennis Watch popped up. Ana rolled her eyes, not this again.

“Oh, Nole. They are just trying to cause trouble. You know they’re wrong,” said Ana, rather skeptical of her own words. Wasn’t he completely sloshed right now? And if she hadn’t stopped him, wouldn’t he be chatting up those girls over there? What were they wrong about again? But she knew better than anyone that he wasn’t usually like this. Something had upset him. Why else would he go get plastered with Murray?

“Nuh, down,” Novak said, reaching for the phone to scroll down on the page, almost knocking down a bowl of nuts on the table. Ana grabbed the phone, doing as he asked, but keeping it a safe distance from its clumsy owner.

“Stop!” he shouted, far too loudly, making Ana cringe slightly as people turned to look at them.

“Okay, so what? You’re mad about them thinking we’re dating?” she asked, looking at an old picture of them leaving a hotel room. Yet another website using it as proof they are dating. You’d think after two years they’d let it go.

“Nuh,” Novak repeated, putting his head down on the table, pillowing his forehead with his arms. He was mumbling on about something, but Ana could only make out the words “he” and “marry.” Looking down at the other story, she noticed the word wedding. Ana was certain she knew what was wrong.

“Nole, you never know, they could pass new laws in Serbia before you get to that point. Just because you’re gay now doesn’t mean you can’t get married,” Ana cooed in his ear, rubbing his back lightly, assuming she found the problem since he didn't contradict her.

They stayed that way for awhile before Ana could convince him to leave the club. Novak’s manager had sent her to make sure he didn’t get into too much trouble, but by the time she got here he was already far too drunk to recover nicely by the next morning. She texted Andy that she was taking Nole home from the Novak’s cell phone, hoping that Andy would take that as a hint to leave as well. While rifling through the unfamiliar phone, Ana accidentally came across the text messages. Curiosity got the best of her, and since Novak was half-asleep in her lap, she read a couple of them. Most of the messages were from someone labeled “R” with no last name or anything. It seemed this was Novak’s beau from the flirtatious nature of the messages, but before she could discover anything too scandalous, they were at the hotel. Just to be safe, they used the back entrance, which was probably best considering Ana had to practically carry her friend to the elevator.

Luckily his room was very close to the elevator and the loud dinging noises the lift made on each floor seemed to wake Novak up slightly, enough so he could walk on his own, though quite shakily. After insisting that he drink water and take an aspirin, Ana left the room, wondering what exactly triggered Nole’s meltdown. From what she could tell, by reading his text messages, Novak wasn’t fighting with his guy, and he’d been playing well in this tournament. It was possible that he really was concerned about not being able to get married in the future, but it wasn’t like Novak to plan ahead and he never cared much about politics. Ana was confused, but tomorrow she planned on getting a full explanation, even if she had to bully it out of him.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roger was excited. He had been in Munich for several days now because of the impromptu ATP meeting, which was admittedly much more convenient than flying to the London office like any other player would have to. Roger was getting anxious. At first, he convinced himself that he wanted the tournament to start so badly because he hadn’t played in awhile, he was looking forward to the competition. Four lengthy practice sessions later, Roger was well aware that the nervous joy he was feeling had less to do with tennis, and more with the arrival of a certain Serb he’d been dying to see for the last two weeks.

Roger had a plan. It started when Mirka took a business call as they got to the hotel, leaving him to check in for their group. He’d done it before, in the early days, and knew how tedious it was, going over each of the ten rooms they rented for the week and planning who stays where. When they got to the master suite, his suite, the man asked if he wanted one key or two. Roger thought about it for a moment, looking over at Mirka who was obviously chewing someone out on the phone. “I’ll take both,” he responded, but when he saw his girlfriend coming back inside toward the counter he added, “If someone from my team asks, could you say there was just one key to my room?”   
   
Roger was surprised how easily the man complied, smiling and nodding as he handed keycards over quickly, in separate pouches that indicated the room numbers. Mirka collected him and their bags, heading upstairs. When he handed over all the keycards she was shocked to find that they only gave him one key, and went off to interrogate the front desk clerk, but it seems the man held strong and convinced her that it was company policy to only give out one key for the luxury suites. Roger was grateful. The next time he saw that man, Roger gave him a hundred dollar tip just for opening the door for him; and he felt a grim sort of satisfaction when Mirka told him not to because the man was absolutely worthless, holding up ridiculous hotel policies that don’t make sense.

With both keys pocketed, Roger left for the pre-tournament get together in the player’s lounge. It was customary for one of the tournament officials to address the players, go over the rules one last time before play begins. It might’ve been easier to just have everyone meet up at the hotel, the players always stay in the same one, but the tournament wanted to promote their recently refurbished players’ lounge with an opening party.

The most exciting part of this evening, Roger felt, was the lack of “teams” that would be present, and for him that meant no Mirka, at least until she retrieved him for their business dinner. Rafa had already texted him to meet up, he was there early, no doubt with the Armada, and offered to save Roger a place near him. Roger didn’t know any of the Spaniards well besides Rafa, but since Roddick wasn’t playing at this tournament, and he couldn’t casually hang out with Novak, Roger gladly accepted his offer.

Surprisingly Rafa was standing at one of the high, circular bar tables alone, with Lopez and Verdasco nearby with one of their latest girlfriends; Roger didn’t pay them much attention. To his carefully hidden delight, Novak joined Rafa at table, bringing the Spaniard a drink from the bar. Just then, Rafa turned and spotted the Swiss man, waving him over to the table.

Happily, Roger joined them, amused by Novak’s attempt to act disinterested. He could now recognize the girl on Verdasco’s arm as Ana Ivanovic, only because talking to her was how Novak chose to distract himself from Roger’s arrival. It wasn’t until Roger and Rafa had exchanged hugs and greetings that the Serb looked his way. Novak offered a nod in acknowledgement, greeting him only with his name; Roger returned the gesture in the same matter, not daring more in front of the other players. The three of them kept up casual conversation until the official came into the room, signifying all the players were present. After the usual rules were stated, and no questions came up, the officials left the room, leaving the players to their “party.”

Lopez was telling some story, in Spanish of course, which drew Nadal’s attention away from them. There wasn’t much they could say to each other in front of everyone. Even with Rafa looking away, it still seemed they were being watched, they always were. When Roger judged it safe enough, he retrieved one of the keycards from his pocket, shielding it with his hand before placing it flat on the table. He moved it toward the center of the table, casually taking a sip from his nearby drink.   
   
Roger looked away, over to the rowdy Spaniards, pretending he understood the story, he knew _some_ Spanish, like the kind you learn from a textbook. Roger could never keep up with all the dialects and regional variations, not to mention how fast they spoke.

Roger smiled when he looked back at the table, the key was gone. He looked up at Novak, who turned toward him with a smirk, something expected from the Serb, but the look in his eyes was softer, more caring, like he was saying thanks. Ana sprung into action, pulling her friend away from the group and into a different part of the room. _Uh-oh,_ Roger thought, wondering if perhaps they were less subtle than he’d thought.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my god,” Ana said once they were away from the crowd. She smacked him on the shoulder.

“Ouch, what was that for?” Novak asked, switching over to Serbian. Ana took the hint and used their native language as well.

“Was that a key?” she demanded, sounding much sterner than usual.

“What?” Novak asked with feigned innocence. Ana didn’t fall for it; she kept her glare in place, waiting for a real answer. “Yes, it was,” he admitted.

“So he’s your guy? Of every guy on the planet you choose _Roger Federer_?” Ana may have just whispered his name, but it was dangerous enough to make Novak panic.

“Are you crazy? Don’t say his name!” Novak whispered harshly, pulling them further away from people. He was sure that Russian guy in the corner heard who they were talking about.

“But it is him?” asked Ana. Novak didn’t like her tone, it always sounded harsher in Serbian.

“Yes,” Novak replied hesitantly, wondering why she was having a change of heart. Why did her feelings change when she knew it was Roger he was seeing? “You don’t like him?”

“Of course, I like him. Everybody likes him.” Ana sighed heavily. “You know who really likes him? His girlfriend, Mirka. Damn it, Novak! Their like the tennis golden couple!”

“I know that!” he defended. “I told you he had a girlfriend. Why does it matter who she is? Who he is? I thought you were happy for me?”

Ana’s demeanor changed, she seemed to calm slightly, but Novak knew they weren’t done. There was still a glimmer of fierceness in her eyes that he wasn’t taking lightly. “I _am_ happy for you, Novak. Of course I am. It’s just… it’s not a good situation. She’s not just some random girl he’s seeing, they’ve been together forever Nole. They are like, marriage-bound.”

  
A wave of disappointed understanding hit Novak, and Ana could finally understand what set him off into his drinking binge earlier that week. “But I don’t have to tell you that,” she commented lightly.

“Look, I know it’s not ideal, but for now I’m happy. And I think he is too,” Novak said after awhile, and despite her resolve to be mad at him, Ana couldn’t help but smile at the kindness in his voice, the care. Even if this all falls apart in a couple months, she thought it’d be worth it for him. Novak’s never cared about anyone so much, of that she was certain, and if it took Roger Federer to bring out the loving side in him, Ana was all for it.

“Just be careful,” was her only advice. It seems there are some cracks in the Federer-Vavrinec façade of perfection, and if Ana knew anything about Mirka, it was that she wouldn’t let anything stand in her way of getting what she wanted, especially not Novak Djokovic.

They returned to the main room of the lounge, Ana nuzzling up next to her boyfriend, Novak hesitantly approaching his table where he found an unwelcome guest had arrived and attached herself to _his_ guy. There she was, the road bump in his otherwise ideal relationship.   
   
Mirka was standing uncomfortably close to Roger with her arm around his waist. She was speaking with Rafa in what sounded like Spanish, and Novak was hesitant to approach. His drink was there, as was his folder of papers they handed out at the meeting. Novak had every right to be there, and yet he waited until it seemed like they were wrapping up their conversation. He walked up to the table just in time to say goodbye. Roger left them with a general “see you later,” but for the first time that night, Novak was sure he was talking directly to him. What exactly he meant by it, Novak didn’t know.

He wasn’t the only one confused by Roger tonight. Rafa was going on about something that Roger was telling him about, and if it were any other player Novak would’ve nodded his head and pretended to listen, but after an hour in the vicinity of the Swiss man without actually being able to be near him, Novak would take anything he could get, even secondhand conversation.  
  
“And he say ten o’clock again! I no get it. Why he tell me he no go back to room before ten! Maybe him thinks I go talk to him? You think?” Rafa asked, his eyebrow arched high into his fringe, the picture of confusion.

Novak laughed at his friend’s confusion, and at Roger’s cleverness. Obviously he knew Rafa well enough to know that if he didn’t understand something, he would ask the first person he came across, and by leaving at a strategic moment he ensured it would be Novak. Or maybe it was just dumb luck that Novak was interpreting to be much greater. Either way, he was fairly certain that Roger was trying to send _him_ a message.

“He probably meant nothing by it, Rafa,” Novak reassured the Spaniard, knowing Roger meant so much more than Nadal would ever know. It was an invitation, ten o’clock with a room key, and all Novak knew is that he would be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The website mentioned in this chapter "Tennis Watch" is not real. I posted a mock webpage at my LJ with the relevant stories referred to in the chapter. This can be found here: http://wr1te1tout.livejournal.com/8903.html


	11. Chapter 11

_What did Roger mean when he said, "I'll see you later?" Was it, “Meet me later tonight?” Or “We’ll see each other at this tournament?” Or "I won't be able to breathe till we meet again?" That’s kind of how Novak felt when he watched Roger walk out the door._

_Or was it just something someone says casually, or just fill space? And what is he thinking right now? Is he also obsessed, anxious, going from one endless minute to the next, wondering what's going to happen between them?  
   
\-------------------------------------------------------_

Novak was ready to sneak up to Roger’s room the moment he left the party, but if he had interpreted Rafa’s ramblings correctly, the Swiss man wouldn’t be there for another two hours. Instead, Novak picked up some take out and sat in his room, pondering the possibilities of what could happen, and gradually beginning to doubt himself. He hadn’t been there long before Ana came knocking on his door. Ana claimed she could hear him thinking from three rooms down, where she was staying with her boyfriend, but Novak was quite certain Ana could just smell his Chinese food from the hallway and wanted to steal an eggroll.

She asked why he was so spacey, since he hadn’t spoke much since she entered the room, but Novak refused to dump his problems on her twice in one day, his pride wouldn’t allow that. Plus he was well-aware how ridiculous she would think him, panicking over such a casual phrase, since it was Roger’s last words that had him so lost in thought. What exactly did Roger mean by “see you later?” The possibilities were endless. Why did he have to be so vague?

Novak didn’t want to tell Ana about any of this, or hear her interpretation of Roger’s words. If she wroteit off as something incredibly casual, like he was beginning to, Novak would be majorly disappointed. Somehow it would be even worse if she agreed it was an invitation, could he really trust her hopelessly romantic mind to interpret correctly? The lack of sharing created awkward silence between them. Ana also seemed to have something she wanted to say, but she refrained.

Ana left not long after she arrived, only staying about fifteen minutes. She seemed hesitant to leave her boyfriend alone too long with his doubles partner, and if Novak did not have problems of his own he might have inquired as to why. _Maybe that’s what she was nervous about,_ Novak thought vaguely. After she was gone, Novak continued to think over his options. It was already nine o’clock and he had no clue what he was going to do.

Novak imagined being brave, showing up at Roger’s door fearlessly. He could see Roger’s welcoming smile and knew the happiness that waited behind that door. He just wanted to talk openly with Roger, like they couldn’t earlier. He didn’t want to think of all that could happen when they next saw each other; it would ruin it somehow, or maybe just get his hopes up too high. He didn't even know what Roger was thinking. There was an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach. What if he showed up and Roger wasn’t expecting him at all tonight?

Ideally, Roger would be happy to see him anytime, but there was a good chance he could show up at an inconvenient time, or worse, when Roger wasn’t alone. Even before Novak starting seeing Roger he had enough good sense to fear Mirka, but now the thought of her was frightening.

There was a good chance Novak would embarrass himself, and he really didn’t want to act like a fool in front of Roger. God knows he did that enough before they were friends, and then there was his obnoxious family who specialize in humiliating him. Yeah, he’d embarrassed himself enough in front of Roger. But then there was that part of him that said it would be worth it, just to have an unguarded moment with Roger. If only he could figure out what Roger meant.

At the time it seemed to mean “I’ll see you later tonight,” but now he wasn’t so sure. How many times had Novak said see you later to someone he didn’t expect to see in the near future? Just a couple days ago he’d told Murray he’d see him later, knowing they would not meet again for at least a week. Wouldn’t he be surprised if Murray showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night?

Novak knew it was different with him and Roger, but it’s not like they had established terms or anything. For all he knew it was empty casual words, just like every other thing they said to each other at that party. And Rafa had been there too, which made the message even more meaningless. He was probably just saying goodbye to them and Novak was overanalyzing it.   
   
But what about the key? Why would Roger give him a room key if he didn’t want him to come over? _Maybe it’s for later this week,_ Novak thought, _we always get together at the end of the week. He’ll probably text me with a plan or something later._

He looked over to the clock, it was finally ten, but Novak was nowhere near ready to leave his room. Could his knowledge of Roger’s schedule tonight be a coincidence as well? How could anyone predict that Nadal would relay all that to him specifically? But then again, paired with the key, and the stupid vague “see you later,” it somehow seemed like more.

Novak climbed into his bed, turning out all the lights. He made a genuine effort to fall asleep, but even his body was aware that he had somewhere better to be. He wouldn’t be able to sleep in his own bed knowing that he could be in Roger’s.   
   
Well aware that he could be facing a hellish, sleepless night, Novak tried to pep up, reminding himself that he is spontaneous and confident, and praying those attributes would show up soon. He left the room, palming the key nervously in his pocket, hoping this meeting would be worth all the anxiety.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Roger got out of his dinner meeting early, and after walking him to the door, Mirka left him alone for the night. He was now remembering why he loved this tournament, the whole first day of play was doubles and the low seeds, so Roger wouldn’t even be playing tomorrow. _Neither will Nole,_ his mind added. _If he wanted to come over we could spend the whole night together and not have to rush off too early the next morning._

The only thing Roger had planned for the next day was a practice session, and that wasn’t until past noon. He didn’t know Novak’s schedule, but it was probably similar, only a trip to the practice courts. For once, the situation was ideal; Roger could only hope that Novak could put together his hints.

By eleven, Roger was beginning to lose that hope. It might’ve been easier to just text Novak, but at this point Roger was afraid of seeming desperate. He put the ball in Novak’s court, gave him the key, and hopefully Rafa would unknowingly play his part. It was a subtle advance, perhaps too subtle given that Novak wasn’t here and it was past the meeting time, but it was all Roger could offer. He wasn’t the kind of guy to just throw himself at someone, even if he certainly felt like it right now.

Roger felt a bit ridiculous. He had showered the moment he got home, thinking there was a time crunch. Roger wanted to look nice if Novak did come over. Before it had always been a spontaneous thing, Novak showing up at his room or him showing up at Novak’s, but this time it was planned…kind of.

He had changed into “comfortable” clothes when he got out of the shower, and styled his hair just right so it looked natural, but still effortlessly curly. He felt stupid for pulling on a snugger shirt than he would usually wear to bed, not to mention upgrading his usual briefs for his Calvin’s, covered only by a loose pair of pajama bottoms, the famous label peaking over the waistband. All of this done with the hopeful expectation that Novak would be sneaking in soon, but it seemed his efforts were all for nothing.

It was getting late. At eleven thirty he decided to finally let his eyes close, there was no use staying up all night, at least not alone…

\-------------------------------------------------------

Novak finally got up the nerve to approach the door. No matter how many times he’d done this, it never gets any easier. But this time, he has a key. Novak listens at the door for a moment before keying in, if Mirka was in there, or the TV was on, he’d be able to hear through the door. He heard only silence. Novak proudly used the key, scared and excited as to what he’d find inside. Silently, Novak creeps into the room.

He finds Roger already in bed, the covers unmade on the other side, looking like it was expecting to be filled. Roger is on the nearest side of the bed but facing away from him, with his back to the door. He was shirtless and the covers hovered down near his waist. Novak moved closer, not trying to be especially quiet any longer, half of him hoping to wake Roger so he wouldn’t have to leave. He couldn’t just crawl into bed with Roger without him knowing, could he?

Novak sat lightly on the edge of the bed, leaning over Roger to see if his eyes were closed. From his deep breathing, Novak could only assume that Roger was truly asleep and he was too late, or perhaps lucky that he didn’t get caught being here when he wasn’t supposed to be. Knowing it was time to go, Novak leaned in close, resting his hand lightly on Roger’s bicep and placing a soft kiss to the back of his neck.

Novak stood up to leave, but before he could even take a step he heard rustling behind him. _He’s probably just turning in his sleep_ , Novak explained to himself, not wanting to get his hopes up that Roger was awake and ready to welcome him into his bed. That is, until he felt fingers close around his wrist and a brief tug, pulling him backwards so he fell onto the bed. Suddenly, Novak found himself looking up into the hazy brown eyes of Roger Federer.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Roger heard the door click open. He wasn’t quite asleep, but just close enough that he didn’t want to move or open his eyes until he was sure he hadn’t imagined it. He had been waiting for that sound all evening, and yet it seemed unreal, mostly because he was pretty much asleep when he heard it. A part of him wanted to jump up and run to the door, in case it was Novak finally showing up, but he had already given up on that idea, abandoning the fitted tee that made him actually look kind of muscular, instead of just skinny.

The thought that it could be Mirka crossed his mind. It was entirely possible that she’d finally harassed the man downstairs into making her another key, Mirka was definitely accomplished enough at nagging to do so with ease, but she didn’t have a reason to be here this late.

He heard footsteps approaching, nearing the bed, but he didn’t move. It wasn’t until he felt a dip in the mattress beside him that Roger knew it couldn’t be Mirka. It wasn’t unusual for her to check on him during tournaments, but it had been over a year since they slept in the same bed while out of town. It was highly unlikely that Mirka would suddenly break that habit, which meant that it must be Novak. Roger found himself motionless, afraid that if he moved Novak would get startled and leave.

Roger felt a strong hand on his arm and he could feel hot breath against his back. For a moment he thought Novak was just going to crawl under the covers and cuddle up to him, something that Roger would most definitely not object to, but that didn’t seem to be his plan. Roger felt lips on his neck, the closest to his cheek that Novak could reach from his position. It was the sweetest kiss Roger could imagine, perfectly soft and natural. He wondered if Novak would have even done it if he knew Roger was awake. Something about that kiss spoke more than either of them had dared to say.

Just as quickly as they came, the lips were gone, taking the pleasant hand and body heat with them. Roger knew exactly what that meant, Novak was leaving. Turning over quickly, not even bothering to untangle himself from the covers, Roger sent out a panicked hand to stop Novak. He found a wrist and gave a tug, delighted when the off-balanced Serb fell back onto the bed.

Roger was looking down at him now from his sitting position, one arm up near Novak’s head, making sure he didn’t slam into the headboard. Their eyes met and Roger felt a smile tugging at his lips, never was he so happy to see that perfect shade of hazel green. Roger paused for a moment over the Serb, unsure what exactly he wanted, or what Novak would want. Roger wanted so badly to talk to him like they hadn’t been able to earlier, to hold him because it’d been so long since he could, and to kiss him like there’s no tomorrow because for once, there was no impending match tomorrow.

“I guess you _were_ awake then,” Novak said wryly, a smirk settling nicely across his features. Roger thought vaguely how nobody else could pull off a smirk like Novak; he actually makes it look kind of cute.    
   
Roger smirked back, hesitantly, thinking it couldn’t possibly look as good on him. He was now aware how much he’d missed actually hearing Novak's little remarks. Reading them was one thing, and perfectly enjoyable when they were apart, but he loved hearing it in Novak’s voice. But still, it was the smirk that got him; the same arrogant little “I know I’m right” saucy smirk that Roger used to hate was all the encouragement he needed to take things further.

Roger leaned in for a searing kiss, Novak meeting him with equal vigor; apparently he’d been anticipating this moment too. It was needier than their prior kisses, both anxious to explore and hesitant to part, even for breath. The positioning was slightly awkward, Roger still sitting upright beside Novak who was lying down completely, leaving him to lean both downward and sideways, but they didn’t let that slow them down.

Roger felt himself groan in appreciation as Novak’s hands roamed his bare chest, mapping out the muscles there. Roger nearly yelped in surprise when Novak firmly gripped his hips and pulled him over on top of him. There was still space between their bodies, space that Roger was hesitant to close. He pushed Novak away for a moment, rolling his shirt over his head. Roger was shaken by the desire he saw in Novak’s eyes, knowing it was the same lust that he felt pumping through his veins.

It was getting hot, unbearably hot and Roger was anxious to shed his remaining clothes. The pajama pants were easy enough to shimmy out of, even under the covers, but he was nervous to take it any further, at least not until Novak was equally undressed. Roger wrapped a questioning finger around the waistband of Novak’s pants, seeking permission to remove them. Novak lifted his hips to allow Roger to pull them down, inadvertently arching into Roger’s groin.   
   
Two whimper-like moans filled the room, neither sure which was their own as they made closer contact than ever before. Novak’s pants were thrown to the ground nearby as Roger attached his mouth to the Serb’s neck, licking and sucking experimentally as he started rolling his hips against Novak.

The younger man was making the most delicious groans as Roger ground against him, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin of his collarbone. But still it wasn’t enough, they needed more. “Off,” Novak mumbled, tugging desperately at his boxers, practically ripping them off. Roger rolled off him for a moment so they could shed the last barrier between them.   
   
After hastily removing their underwear, Roger climbed back on top. He paused for a moment, well-aware that they were completely naked and could go as far as they wanted, uninterrupted. Roger considered grabbing some lotion from the bathroom and fucking Novak senseless, but as he looked down, Roger saw the vulnerability in Novak’s eyes and in the Serb's position willingly beneath him, and knew it wasn’t worth the risk of hurting Novak. Admittedly, Roger didn’t know the first thing about this kind of sex and until he did, Roger wouldn't push for more.

Lowering his hips to once again meet Novak’s body, Roger started grinding again, this time much more frantically and Novak rocked up to meet him thrust for thrust. The friction was intense, nothing separating their hardened flesh now. Roger could feel himself growing closer to release, and from Novak’s moans he was close too.   
   
Roger began his assault on Novak’s neck again, wanting to be even closer to the Serb. His eyes were screwed shut, lost in the sensations, but Roger wanted to see his eyes as his orgasm rocked through his body. Licking the shell of his ear, feeling with delight the shiver that ran through the younger man, Roger whispered “open your eyes for me,” in a husky voice he could hardly recognize as his own.  
   
Novak did just that and Roger found himself lost in the hazel orbs, so glazed over with lust it was a wonder Nole could see properly through them. He saw, just as much as he felt, Novak’s release and the sight sent him right over the edge, erupting onto their toned stomachs.

They laid there for a moment, both reveling in the post-coital sensations and too tired to move. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Roger registered the fingers lightly trailing along the muscles of his back and the way it sent shivers down his spine.  
   
Roger was the first to stir, pulling his weight off of a very drowsy looking Novak and grabbing a towel out of his nearby tennis bag and wiping the mess off their bellies. Nike probably wouldn’t appreciate it if they knew what he using their towel for and something about that made him incredibly happy. When he lay back down, Novak nodded his head as if to say thanks and cuddled up to his side, placing an affectionate little peck to the side of his neck, reminding Roger how all this started.

Minutes later Novak was asleep, looking perfectly peacefully with an adorable little smile on his lips, so different from his usual smug smirk. Roger knew his friend had only got into Germany that morning, and he couldn’t possibly have adjusted to the jet lag yet, a week in Dubai will put your body on a different schedule, but still, he came over despite his obvious fatigue. Roger stayed awake for a while, enjoying having the Serb near him again. He hoped that this would continue throughout the week…and for a long time after that...

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

That was officially the best sleep Novak has ever gotten, of that he was quite certain. He looked up at Roger from his place on the man’s chest and smiled at the way his hair drooped over his eyes. It wasn’t as tidy as usual; perhaps comparable to the way it is after a match, still vaguely styled, but obviously touched by sweat. If the man didn’t look so peaceful, Novak would have reached up and tucked the lock behind his ear, but he didn’t dare move enough to wake Roger.   
   
Novak wondered how long Roger had stayed up, knowing that the Swiss man still looked relatively awake when he had dozed off. Hopefully he was happy with what happened between them, Novak certainly was, and he was hoping there wouldn’t be any awkwardness between them. They had spent nights together, several by now, but never had they gotten off. It was different now, more intense, yet peaceful somehow. Novak couldn’t help but think they really felt like boyfriends now.

There was a knock at the door, so soft that if Novak hadn’t been awake he wouldn’t have heard it. Without thinking, Novak climbed out of bed, replacing his body with a pillow so Roger wouldn’t notice his absence before he could crawl back in. Pulling on his boxers from the previous night, Novak approached the door. Looking through the peek hole, Novak saw a very confused looking Rafa. He opened the door without thought.

“Oh, Nole?” Rafa said, his features taking on a new level of confusion, a bit more inquisition in his raised eyebrow. That was when Novak realized what he had just done. He answered the door to Roger’s hotel room in his boxers, possibly exposing their relationship. Novak wanted to smack himself. He should have never got out of bed.

Novak let Rafa inside, deciding not to acknowledge his confusion. “What can I do for you, Rafa?”

“Oh, I is thinking. Well Roger,” Rafa said, looking at the number on the door, wondering if perhaps he came to the wrong room. “You is speaking German?” he asked, abandoning his search for Roger.

“Um, yeah,” Novak said carefully. German wasn’t his best language, but he probably knew more than Nadal.

Rafa shoved the room service menu into his arms. “I want omelette and they is not understanding!” he said almost hysterically, making Novak wonder how long Rafa had been attempting to communicate with the hotel staff.

“Wait here,” Novak said, going into the main bedroom, thankfully hidden from the entry room, to get his key. When he returned, they went to the Spaniard’s room so that Novak could place the order for Rafa. After ordering all the breakfast Rafa would need, Novak snuck out before questions arose about the room again. Sneaking back into Roger’s room, Novak crawled into bed as if nothing had happened, hoping that Rafa wouldn’t tell anyone, that is, if he ever figured it out.


	12. Chapter 12

“You have a dampener I borrow?” was the strange text Roger received just after his quarterfinals win over Monfils. He was now in his hotel room, rifling through his bag for the shock absorber. Rarely did he use vibration dampeners, but against certain opponents, with certain types of spin, it was necessary. Why Rafa needed to borrow one he did not know. Roger did know that Babolat certainly would not be very happy if their star player showed up to a match with the little Wilson symbol on his racket.

“Of course, I am in my room. 604,” he replied, finally pulling out the little black piece of rubbery material and placing it on the chest of drawers. _Nadal must have a night practice session_ , Roger thought, considering that it was nearly eight o’clock and the matches for the day were over; that is, if Novak had finished off Querrey by now. He was almost done when Roger left the tennis center, but with only a couple thousand fans there, the Swiss man didn’t dare stick around to watch Nole play.

It was not long before Rafa was knocking forcefully at the door in a way that only he could make seem friendly, despite the strength behind his pounding fists. As Roger opened the door, he noticed his friend’s expression read more of confusion than the usual bouncy excitement he typically found in Rafa. The Spaniard entered the room, looking puzzlingly at the door as it closed. 

“You change room?” Rafa asked in a way that was more like a statement. They continued further into the room before Roger answered, the embroidered linens coming into view.

“Obviously not,” Roger said as Rafa plopped himself down on the bed, examining one of the pillows amusedly.

“Is nice. You draw?” Nadal asked, tracing the stitched letters with his finger. The text was fancy and Rafa could not help but think it suited the elegant man perfectly. It was exactly the kind of thing that never occurred to Nadal, making a brand of himself, capitalizing on his fame, but looking at the gold stitched pillows and bedspread, Rafa felt like a little boy who wanted someone else’s candy.

“Mirka and her father designed it for merchandise. I’m not sure I like it in gold, a bit gaudy,” Roger replied, looking down at the bedspread which was also stitched with the logo, though sparingly and from afar it looked like a simple golden dotted pattern.

“I like. Gold for champion. You should put on jacket for Wimbledon,” Rafa suggested earnestly. The more he looked at it, the more he wanted one of his own. Maybe if Roger’s went over well with Nike they would work on one with Nadal too.

Roger opened his mouth in response, but before he could say anything the door beeped softly, indicating that a keycard was used, and they could hear someone shuffling through the door. It sounded like they were struggling to get through, perhaps holding something. 

Rafa sat on the bed, quickly preparing his greeting in English, knowing Mirka did not speak Spanish. He vaguely noticed that Roger’s eyes were wide in what he could only assume to be nervous anticipation. It was no secret to him that the famous relationship was slowly falling apart, but from what he could tell they were still on relatively good terms. Nadal saw no reason for Roger to be looking so fearful…until he heard a voice that definitely was not Mirka’s.

“I picked up some Japanese food from that place around the corner,” said a familiar voice, but Rafa knew it could not really be him. _What would he be doing here?_

They could hear shoes being slipped off in the entry way and keys set down on the table, maybe even a cell phone, but neither of them had any words until Novak finally entered the room.

“Nole,” Rafa said in awe, choosing his nickname instead of his given name. Rafa really didn’t like saying k’s in English, not that he liked speaking English much in the first place.

Novak paused, clearly not expecting Rafa any more than he was expecting the Serb. Roger was just planted in his spot by the armoire, making no effort to explain. The Swiss man looked panicky, and for a moment Rafa thought that Novak might have broken into the room. _But he had a keycard,_ Rafa reminded himself. The two men were exchanging glances full of some emotion that Rafa could not quite identify. It was like they were speaking through looks and gestures, but he did not know the language. _Why are they acting so strange?_ Rafa asked himself, wishing, as always, that there was someone in his mind that actually knew the answer.

“Oh and I, uh, picked up some extra food in case Rafa wanted to join us,” Novak stumbled out, attempting to pick up the conversation from where he left it, talking about the food. “You know, like you texted me to do?”

Novak was looking for an answer, or support of some kind, and Roger seemed to catch on. “Right,” he confirmed, smiling and waving Novak more into the room. “Since Murray isn’t at this tournament, I invited Novak over to hang out. You’re welcome to join us, unless you have plans with the Armada or something.”

Rafa knew they were not being entirely truthful, but for now he could not figure out what they were hiding. _As long as they’re not cheating in their matches, I don’t care_ , he told himself. The prospect of a night away from the tension with Feliciano, Fernando and Ana sounded promising, and since when did he turn down food invitations?

Gathering his English, Rafa replied excitedly, “I love to. I get away from Feli, Nando, and Ana. Is awkward with them.” He explained, looking at Novak’s bag of food with interest. “Is good? Japanese?”

“My favorite, actually,” Roger responded, smiling toward Novak affectionately as he moved onto the bed beside Rafa. Novak followed with the food, setting a deliberate distance between them so that they were close enough, but not suspiciously close as Rafa rifled through the cartons of food. He seemed delighted to find a dish with noodles and shrimp, which made Novak glad he got a variety. He was not sure what kind of food Roger liked, so he pretty much got a little bit of everything, including seafood which is apparently Rafa's favorite.

Rafa lets the other two choose their food before grabbing another carton, this one containing sea scallops and rice, placing it by his knee, and guarding it from the others. He was used to ordering out food with his Spanish friends, and no matter who orders what, it always came down to how fast you can grab. 

They talked amicably for a while, discussing tennis and gossiping about other players in between bites. Roger flinched slightly when Rafa asked him about Mirka and their recent trip to Switzerland. He looked like he would rather not answer, his eyes flickering over to Novak for a moment before answering it was fine, uneventful mostly. _Since when is Mirka a bad subject to bring up to Roger?_

He tried Djokovic. “You go to the clubs?” Everybody on tour knew Novak liked to party. He did not usually drink alcohol, probably at the request of his coach or trainer, but that didn’t keep him from going out.

Novak scratched his head, looking far too nervous for such a simple question. “Um not really. I’ve been…uh, kind of busy.” Rafa rolled his eyes. Even he could tell that something was going on. What were they not telling him?

He remembered Ana saying something about Novak being busy too. Nando was asking Ana to invite Novak to hang out with them sometime, since he is such a good friend of hers. She said something like his time was otherwise occupied at the moment, despite the late hour when most people would be with friends or sleeping. _What has he been doing?_

It was then that Rafa remembered Novak’s strange appearance in this room a couple days ago. He was certain that he came to room 604 that morning, Roger's room, and now that he knew Roger had not changed rooms, his suspicions returned full force.

“You here for dinner today, but why you here before?” Rafa asked suddenly, surprising both his friends who were talking about something else. Novak nearly choked on a spoonful of noodles. Avoiding Roger’s questioning gaze, Novak responded simply with a question of his own.

“What?”

Rafa squinted his eyes in thought, trying to recall the day. “Is Tuesday. I come here early and you answer door. You no remember?”

Novak looked as though he would really like this conversation to go away, anything but answer that particular question. The Serb glanced over to Roger hesitantly, and looked surprised when the man simply shrugged. 

Rafa was waiting for some sort of answer, but Novak did not have much of one. “Yeah, I remember,” he said, knowing that didn’t answer much. Luckily, Roger took over.

“Novak was here because we are together,” Roger said with confident ease, seemingly unfazed by putting everything on the line by outing them to Nadal.

“You together?” Rafa questioned, looking between them and not quite understanding. Roger took a deep breath, steadying himself for what would certainly be a significant moment, at least for him and Novak.

“Together as a couple. Novak is my boyfriend,” Roger said as firmly as he could manage, feigning confidence that he did not quite have yet. Hesitantly, Roger looked over to Novak and felt a swell in his chest when he saw the Serb smiling brightly.

“Oh,” said Rafa quietly, looking down at his hands. He was expecting an admission of friendship, or maybe that they were playing video games together in their free time, he never expected them to be in a relationship. Rafa saw Novak move closer to Roger on the bed, not enough to make him uncomfortable, but enough to show that Roger was not joking. They really were together.

Rafa seemed to have lost his words, or at least his English words, which were always a struggle to find. He really didn’t know what to say. He does not know too many gay people, and those he does know are probably atypical, the Spanish versions were easier for him to understand. 

When he found out about Fernando and Feliciano, they never sat him down like this, explained it to him. He just happened to walk into the shower room at the wrong time and saw them going at it. They did not even notice much as he stood there gaping, but when they did turn to him, Rafa took off running and left without showering. A couple days later Feliciano said “so now you know we’re fucking.” That was it. To this day he is still not sure what is going on between them, now that they both have semi-serious girlfriends, but occasionally wander off together.

He looked up to find the two men anxiously awaiting his response. It must have been several minutes now that he was lost in his memories, trying to find some precedent to follow. He still did not know what to say, but he knew they were going crazy with him just saying nothing, so he said the only thing that came to mind. “I not know what to say.”

Roger released a breath he must have been holding for awhile. He seemed slightly relieved, though Rafa couldn’t figure out why. “Just say what you’re thinking,” Novak suggested, retreating further toward Roger until the older man put a reassuring arm on his back. Rafa felt the corner of his mouth pull into a small smile, there was something cute about them, something he was surprised he had not noticed before. Would that be weird for him to say?

“I want to say I okay with it,” Rafa started, trying very hard to gather his thoughts and force them into understandable words. Why did his English always abandon him at moments like this? “Which I am,” he clarified, realizing that he was kind of vague before. “Then I think that is wrong to say. I mean, we are friends,” Rafa said, pointing between them to emphasize his point. “Is not like you needing my permiso.”

Rafa seemed satisfied with his answer, saying all that he could manage and only slipping into his native tongue once. There was calmness in the room again and Rafa was grateful for it. He had been around enough drama this week and thankfully Roger and Novak were mature enough to just talk to him like an adult instead of treating him like a child. Realizing he was inwardly ranting about Nando and Feli, Rafa shut down that line of thought, at least until he could vent about it properly to David or Tommy.

Suddenly, the thought hit him, did everybody know about Roger and Novak but him?

“Everyone know but me?” Rafa asked, wondering if he was once again the last to know about the personal lives of his fellow players.

“Actually, none of the other players know,” Roger said, sliding his hand around to grip Nole’s waist. “We’re keeping it a secret, for now.”

Rafa nodded, he understood. As soon as the players know something, the press hears it. Nobody wants their private life plastered across some website. He remembered all too well how Xisca freaked out when her picture was suddenly all over the internet, articles claiming they were a couple long before they actually were, and that was with only one famous tennis player involved. Looking at the pair in front of him, smiling at each other and happier than he had seen either of them, Rafa knew he could not tell anyone.

“I like secrets,” Rafa said, hoping that they would understand he meant theirs was safe with him.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Each night had passed similarly to their first night there, or at least their way of sexual release was the same. They were getting better at it, Novak noticed, more in sync with their movements and less amateur-like. He could feel himself growing more comfortable with Roger in those moments of heated passion, and as the week went on they were spending more time together before they hooked up at night. The relationship was growing and with each day that passed Novak felt more alive, and noticeably happier according to Ana.

The Nadal thing was a scare, a wakeup call that they were not being as careful as they thought. Truthfully, they were lucky it was Rafa that discovered them; anyone else might not have been so accepting. Novak shivered at the thought of Murray finding out. He had been around for one too many faggot jokes to place that kind of trust in his old friend, not to mention the fact that Murray likes to poke fun at Roger behind his back.

There were few people Novak could imagine trusting with a secret so precious to him, and though he never thought of telling Rafa, he knew the Spaniard was trustworthy. For several years they have been friendly acquaintances, but now Novak truly thought of Rafael as a friend. Like sharing a secret was some kind of initiation, something that brought them closer, just like how his closeness with Roger grew when they first became secret friends.

Novak felt the urge to go straight to Ana’s room and gush about everything that just happened, in a very unmanly way, but he did not want to be away from Roger for that long. He could always tell her tomorrow during the day when he would not feel like he was wasting valuable night time. Novak just wanted to tell someone about this night, explain it in narrative-like detail, tell them how he could feel his relationship with Roger change during that discussion, felt it developing into something he had never experienced before.

Roger, always the gentleman, walked Rafa to the door, talking about some arbitrary vibration dampener and his strange night practice. Novak sat on the bed thinking about that brilliant moment when Roger called him his boyfriend. It sounded so simple, how many girls had he allowed to call him boyfriend without any intention of acting like one. When Roger said that word he took it seriously, mostly because Novak was beginning to realize it was what he had wanted all along.

\---------------------------------------------------------

“I give you tomorrow,” Rafa said, slipping the little W into his pocket. “I just need for tonight.” Roger nodded; he was right about Rafa having a night practice session.

“Isn’t it a bit late for practice? It’s nearly ten,” Roger offered, knowing that Rafa didn’t pay much attention to time, he ran on Nadal time.

“Is not in Majorca. I on España schedule,” Rafa said, cracking the door open, but not quite leaving.

“Too bad this tournament runs on German time,” Roger joked, seeing his friend out the door. Roger was surprised to see Mirka peek her head outside the room.

“Oh, I thought I heard voices out here,” she explained, offering Nadal a smile. “Hello, Rafael.”

“Oh, uh, hi Mirka,” Rafa stumbled out, putting far too much emphasis on the k in her name, as always. Roger nodded to her in acknowledgement, waved to Rafa and shut the door; he didn’t want to give her a reason to inquire further.

Roger flipped the light switches off quickly, hoping that if Mirka had decided to follow him over, she would get the message to go away.

“Close call?” Novak joked as Roger plopped down on the bed beside him.

“Lots of that going around tonight,” Roger joked back, stretching out to lay on his back with his hands behind his head. Novak smiled at the ceiling; at this point he could not keep the smile off his face. Novak tried to be chill, lying thoughtfully still like Roger, but he was just too damn excited for that. He turned toward Roger, watching him as he laid peacefully still. Roger peeked open an eye to look at him wryly, like “I know you’re watching me,” but his smile told Novak that he did not mind. 

Novak tried to be patient, give Roger his time to ponder whatever it was that was on his mind, but eventually he had to take action. Roger had become the initiator at some point in their previous nighttime meetings, but tonight Novak was feeling in control.

He rolled over onto Roger, capturing his lips in a heated kiss. Roger did not hesitate for a moment, wrapping his arm around the back of Novak’s neck, pulling him closer. Novak shifted so he was on top of Roger, a leg on either side of him, sitting lightly on his stomach. It was not how Roger usually does it, but Novak felt more comfortable this way. There was something thrilling about the way Roger’s hardening cock rubbed against his ass through all the layers of clothing and Novak could not help but push back against it. Roger broke their kiss to let out a strangled moan, thrusting up to meet him.

Clothes were shed in the usual disorderly way, grabbing whatever is in the way and yanking it off. Everything was gone now but their underwear and neither made a move to shrug them off. They had gotten past this stage before, but this position would mean a different kind of contact, something that had not been discussed or planned for yet. If there were no underwear between them, Roger’s cock would be pressed against Novak’s ass and it would not take much to connect them. Roger knew he was not ready, and cursed himself for being unprepared yet again for this moment. Novak was not sure what to do, or what exactly he wanted. _Damn, I need to talk to Sven._

So after a heavy pause, Novak moved his hips just enough to rub against Roger’s crotch suggestively, telling him that this contact is what he wanted. Roger got the message. It was only moments later that they were both coming, the stickiness stifled by their underwear. Roger got the bedside towel so they could slip off the offensive garments and clean themselves before bed.

Novak had rolled off to the side so he would not suffocate Roger by leaning on his chest. He did not feel as drained as usual, probably because of the soda he drank at dinner. He listened for Roger’s breathing pattern, trying to decide if he was falling asleep or awake and waiting. He got his answer when Roger slinked an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. Novak could see from his new position that Roger was very much awake, with a satisfied smile on his face.

“What you thinking about?” Roger asked curiously.

“Have you ever been with a guy before me?” Novak asked bluntly, finally secure enough in their relationship to inquire. He was almost positive that Roger had as little guy on guy experience as he did, but the Swiss man was good enough at what they had done together so far that he might have done some of it previously. Or maybe he was just Roger Federer who was excellent at everything.

Roger blushed, just noticeable in the soft light of a lamp across the room. “Um, kind of,” he said vaguely, waiting for Novak to inquire further.

“Really?” asked Novak, genuinely surprised and desperate to know every detail.

“Well I’ve kissed a few guys, nothing major,” Roger responded as casually as he could manage. It kind of was a big deal at the time.

“So really you shouldn’t have freaked out when I kissed you,” Novak said smartly.

“I didn’t-” Roger started, but he knew it was true. “Okay, fine I did freak out, but it was different.”

Novak felt himself blush and fought the urge to turn away to hide it. Does different mean they were better? In Novak’s defense, he was drunk. “Different how?”

“I don’t know, with you there were feelings and it was unexpected. They were just some guys I lived with—” Roger paused when he saw Novak raise an eyebrow. Now _that_ sounded suspicious.

“You lived with them?” Novak asked, stunned by what he was hearing.

Roger took a deep breath, realizing he would have to explain it all so that Novak would not get excited over every vague detail he shared. “God, Stan would kill me if he knew I was telling you this. Promise you won’t bring it up to him?” Novak nodded.

“When I was fourteen, I was training at Swiss National, they rented a house for a couple of us young players. I think there were eight of us, all boys, with a very lenient house mom. So we only got one weekend off a month, and most of the boys would sneak into the clubs in Basel and try to make out with older girls. I don’t even know who started it, but some of the guys started practicing kissing on each other and soon it just became a thing that all of us did. We never talked about it, somehow it just happened.” 

Novak was quiet, seemingly enjoying the story, so he continued. “I told my sister, Diana. She flipped out. Told me never to tell anyone or our parents would pull me out of the program. I didn't understand why they would care because she was all excited that her baby brother might be gay.”

“I bet she’s thrilled now,” Novak said stupidly, wishing he could take his words back instantly. Why would he think that Roger would tell his family about him? Of course, Novak would run and tell someone, but Roger had a whole life outside of the tour, girlfriend included.

“She was definitely excited,” Roger said, thinking back to his sister’s reaction. “Partly because she dislikes Mirka, but mostly because she’s always thought I was gay and the psychologist in her couldn’t accept that I wasn’t.”

With his confidence restored, Novak delved deeper. “Did you tell her it was me?” Novak waited anxiously. It would make sense if Roger wanted to hide that detail from his family. They probably don’t like him much, especially with his recent winning record against Roger. He certainly wouldn’t be able to tell his family about Roger and hope for it to be accepted.

“Yeah,” Roger said, seeming almost shy. It was always weird to admit to someone how much they mean to you, even in an indirect way like this. Just the fact that Roger decided to take some of the secrecy out of their relationship and go public with one person he cared about, two if you count his admission to Rafa, was significant. He thought of his sister’s reaction.

_Roger leaned in close and whispered, “Novak Djokovic." She nearly fainted._

"Djokovic? What the hell?" was her first reaction. 

"Who were you expecting?" Roger asked, for some reason being with Novak felt sort of normal to him now. 

"I was sure it would be Nadal, maybe Stan. Oh or that American, what's his name? The one that yells at umpires?" 

Roger's first thought was McEnroe from that description, but he knew Diana was talking about Roddick. "Andy Roddick," he told her, mostly because it seemed she would never come up with it on her own.

_“Yeah. Man, I can't believe it. Djokovic?” Diana said amusedly, once she caught her breath. “But he hates you!”_

_“He does not!” Roger nearly shouted in defense._

_“Well then you hate him,” she offered smartly. That Diana was sure of. Wasn’t it just in Australia that he was ranting about the Serb? Maybe it was just suppressed attraction, Diana thought._

_“Obviously I don’t. Not anymore at least,” Roger confessed, thinking of the same conversation in Melbourne where he was brutally honest with his frustrations. But she doesn’t know what happened that night, Roger reminded himself._

_“My God, Roger, he’s so young! What is he, 20?”_

_“21 I think,” Roger said, as if there was some big difference in the two. “I’m not exactly old. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, I’m your **younger** brother.”_

_“Yeah, yeah. Well you know I approve. He’s always been a favorite of mine,” Diana said, obviously thinking dreamily about the man in question. Roger had forgotten all about his sister’s fan-crush on Novak, he was so wrapped up in his own. “So when can I meet him?” Diana asked, repeating a question she’s asked many times before. “You can’t make excuses now.”_

_“How about we’re hiding our relationship and we can’t be seen acting friendly,” Roger said smartly, knowing she couldn’t argue that._

_“Well how about you invite me over when he’s at your place sometime, just for a bit,” she suggested innocently._

_“I hate to tell you this, sis, but we’re usually quite busy then,” Roger said, trying to contain his blush, not exactly what you want to talk about with your sister._

_“Naughty boy. I always knew you had it in you,” she chided playfully. “But promise me I can meet him sometime. It doesn’t have to be as his boyfriend’s sister, just a fan.”_

_“Alright, you wore me down. You can meet him, eventually...”_

"Yeah, I know. I can meet him at the wedding," she joked.

“She’s always been a fan of yours,” Roger said, shaking his head as if he did not understand how. “I guess she likes her tennis players pretty obnoxious.”

“Obnoxious, eh?” Novak questioned lightly, knowing Roger did not mean it in a bad way. Novak tilted his head into the crook of Roger’s neck. “I guess you like them pretty and obnoxious too,” he whispered in an alluringly husky tone, twisting Roger’s words.

“I guess I do.”

\--------------------------------------------

Novak first peeked open his eyes at seven in the morning. He had no reason to be up until at least nine, especially since Roger did not seem likely to stir anytime soon, but he was very much awake. Novak wondered why he was up so early, figuring that he must have slept well to feel so refreshed. _Hopefully this will last for my match later,_ Novak thought, dreading his semis match against Nadal. Despite Novak’s good results this year, Rafa was one of the players that consistently gave him trouble, not that he wanted to face Roger in the finals either.

Looking over at his boyfriend, Novak smiled as he realized he could say that now, Roger had finally defined them last night and not a moment too soon. Novak had asked himself a million times this week why he could not just approach Roger about it, demand that they be something official, but even in his head he chickened out. Novak ended up reminding himself why he was letting Roger guide their relationship. It was the Swiss man who had the longtime girlfriend who was so engrained in his life that he could not just walk away, and the millions of adoring fans that might not approve. Roger had the most to lose if anyone found out about them, so Novak just followed his lead.

At some point Novak’s hand, which was innocently resting on Roger’s stomach, began softly raking over the sensitive skin just beneath. He did not even realize his fingers were moving until he draped his leg across the Swiss man’s body, nudging against Roger’s half hard cock that was not there a couple minutes ago. Roger breathed in sharply at the contact, but did not wake. That time was by accident, but Novak found himself “accidently” brushing against Roger several more times. He watched Roger’s face carefully, looking for any signs of him waking. His peaceful expression had turned into a pleased smirk, which somehow felt like encouragement to Novak.

He was curious how far he could take this before Roger would wake up, or really, how far he could take it without making Roger mad when he _did_ wake up. Novak’s curiosity was getting the best of him. The covers suddenly felt heavy and he wanted to push them off completely. Every time they hooked up, it was under the covers. He might have been able to feel Roger just fine, but he never got to see him properly. It was so formal and conservative, so unlike Novak. He figured if Roger was willing to relinquish some control to him last night, maybe he would not mind if they did this his way.

Novak slowly pulled down the covers until it was pooled around their knees. He was awed by the sight in front of him. Novak was familiar with the strong sculpted arms, one of which was still tightly wrapped around his waist. The toned chest and abdomen beneath his hand that was dusted lightly with soft brown hair, the lean muscles rippling softly in acknowledgement of his wandering hand. Novak’s hand traveled lower. He kept a firm grip on Roger’s hip, willing himself to hold back as he observed Roger’s now fully extended erection.

His first thought was _it’s bigger than I thought_. True, he had only felt it pressed against his own, and at that moment he was not about to break out a measuring stick. Begrudgingly, he admitted that Roger’s cock was slightly bigger than his own, something that did not at all seem fair. _He’s already a better player…and probably a better person, does he have to have a bigger cock?_ Novak thought, regressing into the teenage years where that was a significant bragging right between boys. Despite his mild jealousy, Novak had to admit there was something beautiful about Roger’s dick, which was a strange enough thought. His impression of cocks thus far was that they were useful, but not necessarily aesthetically pleasing, but Roger’s lived up to his standard of overall beauty.

Novak snuggled up to Roger, placing light open-mouthed kisses to his neck. He felt Roger’s breathing change, and only when he was sure the Swiss man was waking did he dare touch his erection. Roger groaned, the sound lost in his throat. Novak kissed his way to Roger’s mouth.

“You weren’t even going to wake me?” Roger asked huskily in a sleep heavy voice.

Novak opened his eyes to meet the warm chocolate ones beneath him, glad to see a pleasant mixture of amusement and lust rather than the anger he feared.

“That’s what I’m doing,” Novak defended, recapturing Roger’s mouth as he rubbed his hand up and down Roger’s most sensitive flesh. He had not really grabbed hold of the man’s cock yet, he was still unsure of what he wanted to do exactly. Roger bucked his hips up into Novak’s hand, moaning into the Serb’s mouth. That was all the encouragement he needed. Novak curled his hand around Roger’s cock firmly and stroked it like he would his own.

He was bringing Roger to the edge, Novak could feel his breathing become more and more labored and his hips rolling into Novak’s touch more aggressively. Novak was quite close himself, the friction of Roger’s leg moving against his cock was more than enough stimulation. Just when he thought Roger could not hold back a moment longer the Swiss man surprised him.

“Wait,” he said in a heady voice, pushing Novak’s hand away. Novak retreated instantly, discouraged and slightly embarrassed at the rejection. Roger seemed a bit too turned on to use his words properly, instead he grabbed Novak’s hand and guided him into the bathroom.

Novak had no idea what he had planned until the older man turned on the shower. He had a feeling that Roger did not want them to make a mess of his bed, so relocation was necessary. But still, he inquired, “Why?”

Roger pulled him close as they entered the steam-filled shower. Novak almost laughed at the wide variety of Gillette products lining every available shelf space in the tiled cavity. His thoughts were interrupted by Roger guiding him to look up, into his eyes.

“We used the bedside towel last night,” Roger explained simply, moving closer so his words fell directly into Novak’s ear, his breath somehow warmer than the hot steam around them.

“And because when I was at home, the only place I could think about you unguardedly was in the shower, and ever since then I’ve wanted to get you into one with me.”

Novak looked a bit stunned, mostly because Roger did not usually talk like that. The Swiss man surprised him further by placing Novak’s hand on his cock, indicating he should resume his actions. Novak happily complied, pushing Roger up against the wall and pumping his hand up and down his erection. Novak licked his way across Roger’s jaw line, catching the water droplets streaming down his face and working his way to Roger’s perfectly parted lips.

Roger’s hand slid down to hold his hip, guiding him gently to the side. Novak was confused until Roger’s right hand wrapped around his cock. Novak lost his breath for a moment. It was not that he was unfamiliar with having someone else’s hand on his cock, hand jobs from random girls at the clubs were not unusual, but with Roger it was different. There were no long nails to accidentally scratch him on his most sensitive skin, or hands so soft and smooth that they seemed barely there, and they could never grip tightly enough. Instead, there were larger, slightly calloused hands that knew exactly what to do. Yet another thing that is different about doing these things with a guy. _Better with a guy_ , Novak’s lust hazy mind corrected.

Roger placed wet open mouthed kisses down Novak’s neck until he reached the ultra-sensitive crease of his collarbone. A slight nip was all it took to send Novak over the edge; his tightened grip took Roger over with him. Novak nearly slid down to the ground, his legs suddenly like jelly, but Roger held him close as he leaned on the wall for support. They stood there for a while, catching their breath as the water cascaded over them.

Novak’s glance returned to the shelves of Gillette products. It was amusing. Who actually uses all of the products they endorse? _Mr. Honesty does of course,_ Novak thought.

“What’s funny?” Roger asked, noticing his quiet chuckle.

“You actually use all this stuff,” Novak said, indicating the line of shampoos, conditioners and body washes. “Five different shampoos?”

Roger laughed too, he knew it was a bit extravagant, but didn’t he have the best hair on the tour? “Might as well, it’s free,” Roger answered simply. Novak was still eyeing him suspiciously, knowing there was another answer. He explained further, “my hair is different in different climates, we travel so much. I use whichever one I need.”

Novak seemed satisfied. “Which one do I need?” Novak asked playfully.

Roger ran his fingers through the Serb’s short locks, and seemed to think about it for a moment before selecting one that smelled minty and rubbing it into his hair. Roger massaged the thick liquid into his scalp gently and Novak felt his eyes close, he did not know his head was so sensitive. The gentle fingers were soon replaced by the strong jets of water and once the suds were gone Roger kissed him softly, sweetly and Novak found himself desperate not to leave, but he had an important match in a couple of hours and his team would be looking for him soon. They hurried to get washed when they heard Novak’s alarm going off in the other room. That was the alarm to tell him he needed to leave and he reluctantly obeyed.

Novak pulled on last night’s clothes, hoping not to run into anyone that would notice. He had not thought about the consequences of coming all over his underwear. Novak could not wear dirty underwear, even if the trip was just back to his own room. He stuffed the briefs into his pocket and pulled on his jeans. It was not the most comfortable fabric to have rubbing against his cock, but it would have to do. With one last brief kiss, and mutual wishes of good luck, Novak left.

\----------------------------------------

Novak had planned to go straight back to his room, but he reasoned that taking a shower at Roger’s place had saved him some time. He was desperate to talk to Ana, even briefly, to at least make lunch plans. There was so much to tell her. He knocked on the door, surprised slightly when Fernando answered the door in only his boxers.

“Oh, uh, hey Fernando,” Novak said awkwardly. He rarely talked to this particular Spaniard off court and seeing him like this made Novak blush. “Is Ana here?” he asked, knowing that she was and hoping he had not interrupted anything.

Novak felt Verdasco’s eyes rake over him in a way that made him feel a bit uncomfortable. He was relieved to hear Ana’s voice. “Is that Nole?” she shouted from inside the room.

“Yes,” Fernando said with his thick Spanish accent. His gaze never left Novak with his tight shirt and form fitting jeans. He knew why Fernando was looking at him like that. He was dressed this way for Roger, he wanted to look especially hot. From the Spaniard's lingering stare, it seemed he got it right.

“Nole!” Ana shrieked, pushing through the door and grabbing him. “I haven’t seen you all week!” She guided him down the hall and toward his room, leaving Fernando behind in the doorway. He rolled his eyes and shut the door, going back to bed.

Once in the safety of his room, Novak ignored all Ana’s questions to ask one of his own. “When’s the soonest I can talk to Sven?”

Ana’s eyes got wide, which combined with her pajama pantsuit made her look like a little kid. She knew exactly what he was asking and found herself cheering “yay!” in response.

“Focus,” Novak said, wanting his answer.

“He’ll be with me at Roland Garros, probably a few days before the French starts,” she said, trying to think of her schedule. “I’ll set it up,” Ana said, digging in her pockets for her phone. Novak looked at her strangely, _why do pajamas need pockets?_ She seemed to realize the same, abandoning her search for the phone. “I’ll call him later. Tell me more,” she demanded, sitting on his bed.

“No time, I play Nadal in a couple hours. I’ve got to meet Bobby in,” Novak looked around for a clock. “forty-five minutes. We can meet for a late lunch?” he suggested.

“Fine,” she said, getting up to leave. “Your hair looks shiny,” she said casually, not knowing why that made Novak blush.

“Thanks,” he said, ushering her out the door. “Go back to your boyfriend, I’ll tell you about mine later.” And with that he shut the door, leaving her with her wide excited eyes and a million questions.


	13. Chapter 13

“I’m tired of this fucking schedule,” Novak complained, tossing his racket harshly into his bag and throwing himself unceremoniously onto the courtside bench.  
  
“What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Marian Vajda, perhaps more aggressively than was necessary, but after days with the moody Serb he’s just about ready to snap. “We carefully planned out this schedule for a successful season and you’ve been doing well.”  
  
“Too well. I’m not even challenged. Do you realize I haven’t dropped a set in nearly two weeks?” Novak asked, as if the idea disgusted him. Since when did he mind winning with ease?  
  
“Would you rather play your best all week and lose to Federer or Nadal in the final? Have your prize money cut in half?” his coach asked, tapping his foot with impatience and rolling his eyes. Djokovic may be a tennis star on the rise, but he could really be a brat sometimes.  
  
“It’s not all about the fucking money!” Novak yelled, watching as the other players near him moved down a couple courts, getting away from him.  
  
“Really? I thought that was your goal this year. Build up your wealth with these smaller tournaments, and focus on playing your best and establishing your name in tennis at the Majors. And you did that. You are already up one on every other player on tour. None of them have a 2008 Grand Slam title,” Marian explained logically. Novak knew that was the plan. They spent hours during the off season planning it that way, but now he was cursing himself and anyone involved for creating this stupid schedule that kept him from seeing Roger.  
  
“I know,” Novak said, finally giving in. He did not mean to aggravate his coach; it should not be his problem that Novak was having a meltdown because it had been nearly a month since he saw his boyfriend. Marian was just doing his job and Novak was being a douche. “I guess I’m just nervous about the French. I hate clay.”  
  
“Don’t say that. You’ll never win if you’re so negative. You play on clay many times a year, this one shouldn’t be any different,” Marian said calmly, as if he was not talking about the most coveted of Grand Slams. Novak knew it was different than any other matches on clay, mostly because of Rafael Nadal. Djokovic may have been able to best any other Serbian on clay, perhaps most players in Eastern Europe, but that did not change the fact that he would have to take down the King of Clay to win, something that even Roger has not yet been able to do.  
  
“I know, it’s just— I’m tired of waiting, playing these stupid warm up tournaments. I’d rather just play it now. I’m ready,” Novak said confidently, though his mind still was not on tennis. He was looking forward to playing at Roland Garros, well as excited as he could be about a match on clay. Novak already did the impossible this year by winning the Aussie Open, who knows how far his luck would carry him?  
  
“No, you’re not ready. But you will be. Just focus on finishing here in Rome, then you can shift your focus to Roland Garros,” Marian advised, motioning for Bobby to rejoin them from the side court where he was practicing his serves. “30 more minutes of drills and you can go.”  
  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
“Hey baby brother!” greeted Diana the moment she answered the phone. “I haven’t talked to you in ages.”  
  
“I saw you yesterday,” Roger said dryly, easily proving her wrong.  
  
“Yes, but that was with Mirka, so I couldn’t really talk to you. I was too busy making her feel inadequate and unwanted,” Diana responded playfully, not too far off from the truth.  
  
“Right. I, um—had something I wanted to ask you about,” Roger’s words fumbled out. He told himself not to be nervous, that’s why he called her instead of talking about it face to face, but he was a bundle of nerves anyway.  
  
“Sure thing, what do you need?”  
  
“Umm,” he began, suddenly very uncertain and wishing he had someone else to talk to about this. “You know how you wanted me to tell you when I—I mean we —when we…”  
  
“You had sex?!” she guessed, sounding way more excited than what was appropriate for a sister. “When? Last night? You’ve only been there one day!”  
  
“No, we haven’t,” he corrected, cutting through her stream of questions. “But I think we might soon.”  
  
“How soon? Like while you’re in France? Or just in the near future? You better wait until next week when I’m in town, mister,” she said with playful sternness.  
  
“I don’t know,” Roger admitted. “I haven’t talked to him about it. I haven’t talked to him at all since we’ve been here.”  
  
“Well don’t talk to him about it. That would be weird. It has to happen naturally,” she said and Roger could imagine her doing some waves of the ocean-like hand movement to emphasize naturally, as if he could actually see her.  
  
“I’m not planning on talking to him about it. I’m trying to talk to you about it!” Roger said, wondering how their conversation got so far off track.  
  
“Oh, well then talk,” she said, obviously having to control herself from saying more.  
  
“I just wanted to know, how exactly do I, you know, _do it_?” Roger asked, finally getting across the question he needed to ask and grateful that she could not see the intense blush spreading across his cheeks.  
  
He scowled when he heard Diana laughing. “Di,” he said irritably, not used to being laughed at, especially on such a serious matter.  
  
“I’m sorry, Rog, it’s just a funny question to hear from your little brother. ‘Sis, how do I have gay sex?’” she rephrased it, and though Roger could see the humor in his question, or really who he posed it to, he chose to stay firm. He needed this answer.  
  
“Well, are you going to answer?” he said. “I don’t have all day.”  
  
“I’m not going to explain it to you!” she said. “That would be far too Freudian.”  
  
“Then what am I supposed to do?” Roger asked, finally letting frustration overtake him. He’d been meaning to ask her for over a week now and the moment just never came up.  
  
“I don’t know, just feel it out. You know, trial and error? I’m sure you get the gist of it,” she suggested.  
  
“I’m not just going to fumble my way through this, Di. He’s not some guy I picked up at a club. I know if this is not done right, it can hurt and I don’t want to take that chance,” Roger said harshly.  
  
“Fine I’ll help you, but only because you’re so good at those little speeches. You always get me,” she said, sounding more amused than frustrated and Roger suddenly got the feeling that she was going to help him all along, she just wanted to draw his feelings out in the open. Damn her.  
  
“Maybe you should watch some porn, that’s what Jim did when he was a teenager trying to figure sex out,” she suggested.  
  
“Why do you know—” he started to ask, but found himself really not wanting to know the answer. “Seriously? Don’t you have to pay for porn? Are you forgetting who watches over my finances? That would be an odd charge to explain to Mirka,” Roger said, beginning to feel hopeless.  
  
“Right. Oh, I know!” Diana said suddenly. “There are websites. Like how-to websites with tips and stuff. You can read up on the basics, and if you have any more specific questions I can ask one of my gay friends for you. Is that better?”  
  
“Uh, yeah. I think I can manage that.”  
  
“Just remember to wipe the browser history,” Diana reminded him.  
  
“Okay. I might just use my phone. She’d never look there,” Roger said thoughtfully.  
  
“Smart thinking. I’ll see you in a couple days. Don’t do anything before I get there,” she said before abruptly hanging up.  
  
Roger looked around the room, checking the time. He had just over an hour before he needed to be anywhere and it seemed unlikely that Mirka would come knocking any time soon. Now was the perfect time to take Diana’s advice.  
  
It did not take Roger long to find a reputable looking website. A gay magazine had published an article on first time sex which pretty much answered all of his questions. Roger could not help but blush as he read through the article, surprised at how worked up he got just from the words. He did not dare think of the acts described in relation to Novak, knowing there was not time to explore that idea thoroughly.  
  
Instead, Roger focused on absorbing all the information, wanting it imprinted in his mind for when the moment came. The article ended with an open invitation for readers to post their stories and comments, and that part truly made Roger blush. He was halfway through a particularly interesting story about two guys in a movie theater when Mirka came through the door. Roger jumped up quickly, rummaging around the room and stuffing various things into his pockets, pretending like he was getting ready to leave.  
  
“Ready to go?” she greeted, barely looking up from her cell phone, which reminded Roger to close the internet window on his own phone.  
  
“I’m ready,” he replied, quickly shooing her out the door. Roger had not thought to steal her key this time, so he wanted to make her feel as uncomfortable in his room as possible so she would not want to linger.  
  
The car ride was awkwardly silent, Mirka pretending to be busy on her phone and Roger trying not to get giddy at the prospect of finally seeing Novak, though probably just from afar. He was surprised that Mirka came with him inside the tennis center, but quickly remembered that she had some sort of business with one of the tournament directors to discuss. This was her second meeting this week so it must be somewhat important, though obviously not enough to bother Roger with it.

They came across Safin in the hallway outside the meeting room. Marat claimed he did not know where the meeting was to be held, but from his shifty behavior, Roger thought it was more likely that he was meeting someone and they had interrupted since they were using an unusual entrance. Either way, Marat seemed happy to see them and followed Roger into the meeting room, leaving Mirka to her business.  
  
Roddick soon joined them, complaining about being dragged here for a tedious meeting. Roger was only half listening. He had spotted Novak from across the room. It was difficult for Roger to just watch him and not think about everything he had just read. When Ana joined Novak, Roger was put slightly at ease. It is difficult to fantasize about a guy when he’s with the girl assumed by many to be his girlfriend. Roger just watched them, thinking about how he would like to bring up the subject of Ana to Novak sometime, mostly so he would know whether the pang of jealousy he gets when she leans in close to whisper to him like that is justified.

Roger did not really stop watching them until a word in the ATP official’s speech caught his ear. “…a couple cases of mononucleosis…” he heard suddenly and nearly forgot how to breathe. Roger waited for them to announce him as one of the cases, dreading the reaction he would get from his peers, and most especially from Novak. He had considered telling Novak, but since the illness had been dormant in him before they even kissed, he decided not to. If it turned out that Novak had somehow gotten it from him, Roger would feel extremely guilty, not only for spreading it but for not telling him sooner. Damn it, Roger thought, one of the curses he threw at himself. Why the hell was he thinking about sex when just kissing might have made Novak sick?

\----------------------------------------------------------------

“Have they started yet?” Ana asked, plopping into the nearest seat and handing over a cup of coffee to Novak.

“Not yet. I can’t drink this stuff! My first round is tomorrow morning,” Novak said, handing it back.

“And it’s Sunday morning now. Twenty-four hours to wear off. I think you can handle it,” Ana said, forcing the cup back on her friend as she sipped from her own cup. “Besides you look tired. Late night?” she whispered dramatically.

“God, I wish. Do I really look tired? Like just woke up tired or sickly tired?” he asked with panic in his voice, patting his face as if that would solve everything.

“I don’t know. Just drink, it’ll help,” she ordered and he willingly obeyed this time. “So what do you think this big meeting is about? They already went over the rules, as if we don’t know them by now.”

“Yeah, you say that now. Just wait until they call a foot fault or bad behavior on you, then you’ll be saying you never heard the rules,” Novak joked, as if Ana would ever get caught on such a charge. He has known her since they were twelve and she’s never even thrown a racket.

Ana smacked him on the arm. She leaned in close, making sure nobody else was around. “Sven’s plane gets in soon if you want to come over tonight, early evening,” she corrected automatically, knowing he was about to bring up his early match again. “I told him you wanted to talk to him about something.”

“Okay,” Novak said, slightly nervous. He had been preparing himself for this little chat for nearly a week, knowing it would probably be the most awkward moment of his life, though perhaps less awkward than if he tried to jump right into sex without knowing the necessary details. “Is he going to be weird about this?”

“Are you?” she looked at him pointedly. “He’s a cool guy, Nole. And I’m sure he’ll be plenty nice about it. He was about your age when he came out, and it was not entirely by choice. He’ll understand the position you’re in.” Novak was slightly relieved, hoping that she was right.

Verdasco interrupted them for a moment to say hello to Ana and give her a peck on the cheek before joining his fellow Spaniards. He was there just long enough to make Novak uncomfortable. Fernando pretty much ignored him this time, which made Novak think that Ana had told her boyfriend to leave him alone. That or he found Novak less interesting back in the familiar tennis setting. Novak shuddered as he remembered their last meeting. It was not until he got back to his room that he figured out what had caught Fernando’s interest. Novak had a mark on his neck, nearly hidden by the collar of his shirt but still fairly visible, and the angle made it obvious that the person who gave it to him was standing behind him. Novak hoped Verdasco did not read too far into it, but even if he caught on, Ana clearly had him under control.

“Ahem,” a voice sounded from the front of the room. Looking over the crowd, Novak spotted Roger. He was sitting by Roddick, Blake and Safin, the old guys on tour as he liked to think of them. Novak did not think the Swiss man fit into that group, probably because he was still on top of his game, but just seeing them together reminded him that Roger was slightly older than him and definitely more mature. Novak did not really know why that was suddenly significant to him, but it was comforting nonetheless.

The voice interrupted his thoughts. “You have been brought here for a very specific reason. The ATP has recently become aware of a couple cases of mononucleosis amongst players. An investigation has lead us to believe that a water container at one of the tournaments might have been contaminated, leading to this spread. We are taking proactive steps to ensure the health of the ATP and WTA players; therefore, we are asking that each player come by this office,” he paused, pointing to a small room behind him, “at some point during this tournament to be tested. If you fail to do so within the indicated time period, you will be fined for every additional week until the test results are turned in to the proper authorities. Thank you for your time, you may go.”

“Mono? That’s not too bad,” Novak commented lightly, standing to leave. Ana handed him her purse to hold while she finished off her drink. Novak begrudgingly accepted it, looking around for Verdasco and wondering why he did not have to hold the purse. Novak turned to glare at the Spaniard. Not finding him, Novak turned his glare on Ana who was taking forever putting on her damn jacket.

“Stop being a baby,” she chided, taking the purse back and guiding them through the mob of players. Novak looked around for Roger and was disappointed to see him walking away with Mirka. Where the hell did she come from? This was a players-only meeting, he thought, choosing to ignore his growing resentment for the woman. Instead he grabbed Ana by the wrist and took off in that direction.

“Where are we go—” Ana paused, spotting the famous couple through the crowd. “Nole,” she warned, but he pressed on.

They pushed their way through the crowd until they were only a couple paces behind Roger and Mirka. Novak dropped Ana’s wrist and pretended like they were deep in conversation. Their pace quickened until they were just near the couple. As they passed, Novak connected hands with Roger briefly before shouldering his way through. To anyone watching it would appear as if he was trying to knock Roger aside to get past, which is certainly what Mirka must have assumed since she called him an asshole under her breath. Novak heard Roger chuckle and he could only imagine the smile on his face, wishing he could turn around and see it, but that would be too obvious.

“She’s right you know,” Ana said with a smirk, drawing her friend’s attention back to her. “You are an asshole.”

\----------------------------------------------------

Novak’s first thought was that Sven is younger than he remembered, and more handsome than he’d ever cared to notice. He had longish dark blond hair, bright blue eyes and a pleasant smile that put Novak slightly at ease. He guessed that Sven was in his late thirties, something he’d confirm with Ana later, which was surprising for a player who had been retired for nearly fifteen years. Most pro tennis careers last until the late twenties, sometimes early thirties if you are still fit enough like Agassi, but early retirement for a moderately successful tennis player without some sort of tragic injury was nearly unheard of. He must have been around twenty-five when he quit. I wonder why… Novak thought. He was suddenly intrigued by the man, who he’d always found to be a tad boring.

“Why did you retire?” Novak asked almost as soon as they sat down in the sitting room of his suite. Sven’s eyebrows furrowed and Novak could not tell if he was surprised or bothered by his question.

“Are you really going to waste questions on my past?” Sven asked with an accent Novak could not quite identify, though definitely something European. When it seemed Novak was not going to let it go, Sven answered. “An injury, minor but recurring. Same old story.”

Novak was satisfied with his answer. You usually hear about the major injuries, like Blake’s neck break, but most players fall victim to lesser injuries that are more of a constant nuisance.

“But that’s not what we’re here to talk about,” Sven said bluntly, giving him a look that read strongly of 'get on with it.' Novak had been staring at his hands, twiddling his thumbs idly as he tried to figure out what to say.

“Yeah, I just wanted to ask you some questions,” Novak started hesitantly. “You know, man to man.”

“You mean gay man to gay man,” Sven said knowingly.

“You know? Ana told you?” Novak asked in surprise. Ana was not supposed to tell him anything. As far as he knew, this meeting could be about something tennis related.

“Yes, I know. But Ana didn’t tell me. I’ve just been there. I know what it’s like to be at the unsure, questioning phase. I knew as soon as you walked in.”

Novak smiled, slowly feeling more secure. It was normal for him to be this confused. “So what do I need to know?” Novak asked curiously, suddenly finding himself looking at Sven like a mentor.

“Well you shouldn’t tell too many people about your sexuality. If word gets out, your career will be affected. The world is becoming more progressive toward the homosexual community, but discrimination is still out there,” Sven said in a heavy tone and Novak got the feeling that he might be speaking from experience.

“Okay. What’s different about being with a man?”

“Other than less drama?” Sven joked. “It’s like being with your best friend. He’ll always understand you better than a girl because instinctively, you’re the same. Not to mention the fact that he knows a man’s body better than any woman ever could.”

Novak blushed. Is that why Roger always knew what to do? Or exactly where to touch to make him go crazy? The thought of Roger touching himself like he touched Novak was so pleasantly erotic that Novak found himself wanting to jump inside that mental picture to join his gorgeous boyfriend.

“Have you had sex?” Sven asked, cutting through his daydream. Novak felt his face flushing hot, hoping that his tan would hide the blush spreading across his features.

“Yes,” Novak answered defensively before realizing that Sven was not talking about sex in general, but specifically if he’d had sex with a man. Novak quickly corrected himself, knowing that if he lied about his experience, he would not get any advice and God knows he needs it. “Well, not exactly,” he admitted.

“Well there are two kinds of first times: the random hook up to get it over with fast and move on. And then there’s the fantastic magical night with someone special,” he explained.

“Assuming that something more than fame kept you from taking home some twink from a club, you already have a guy, and probably one worth impressing if you care enough to come looking for advice,” Sven said knowingly, a confident smirk in place.  
  
Novak was surprised that Sven could guess he was attached, considering nothing in his well-known reputation would imply a commitment was ever in his future. Quite honestly, Novak had not even considered sleeping with any other men; and though he could see the benefits of getting some practice, Novak felt that he would rather share this experience with Roger, good or bad.  
  
Exclusivity, Novak thought, wondering when the idea became more approachable and less frightening.  
  
“So do you?” Sven prompted, waiting for proof he was right.  
  
Novak smiled. “I have someone special,” he answered, proudly thinking that if Sven knew who his boyfriend is he’d think Roger is a whole lot more than just special. Pretty damn spectacular is more like it. "So what do I do?"  
  
“Is he new to all this too, or are you just nervous?” Sven pried.  
  
“He is also newly gay,” Novak said sheepishly.  
  
“Ahh,” Sven said thoughtfully. “Maybe this should have been a group meeting,” he joked and Novak was amused by the thought of Roger Federer taking any sort of advice from someone as normal as Sven. “Well I guess I’ll take you through the basics,” Sven offered, and for a moment Novak thought he meant physically take him through the motions which was a bit alarming, but he soon realized Sven just wanted to talk.

“The first thing to decide is top or bottom?” Sven asked.  
  
“Um, wha—” Novak said before catching on. “Oh uh, how do you decide?”  
  
“Well you’ve been intimate with this guy, right?” Sven asked, continuing after Novak nodded. “Who was mostly in control? Who ended up on top?”  
  
Novak thought back. He’d initiated the first kiss, and their last day in Munich Roger let him get a bit frisky, but even then Novak felt Roger was ultimately in control. “Him,” Novak admitted, not sure whether he should be embarrassed. Men are always supposed to be powerful and domineering, and he was sometimes, but with Roger he felt the macho guy front was unnecessary, it was okay to just be him.  
  
“Then you’ll probably bottom, at least for the first time,” Sven said unsympathetically. He noticed Novak’s uncertain expression and teased him. “Don’t get all pouty. I’m not questioning your manliness. You don’t have to bottom if you don’t want to.”  
  
“It’s not that,” Novak said, rolling his eyes as if he had not just been thinking about that. “I’m just not used to…”  
  
“Giving up control? Trusting someone that deeply?” Sven suggested, knowing exactly what he meant.  
  
“Yeah. No, I do trust him,” Novak said, realizing for the first time that he really did trust Roger. “I’m just nervous I guess.”  
  
“That’s normal,” Sven reassured him. “He’ll know what to do. Just make sure he prepares you well enough. Oh and use a condom,” he said, thinking over the procedures in his mind.  
  
“Prepares me?” Novak asked hesitantly. Is he supposed to know that that entails?  
  
“Yeah. Lots of lube. And stretching,” Sven said, amused by the look on Novak’s face. He knew the Serb was comparing it to sex with a girl and not liking that he would be playing her role. “It may sound undesirable now, but you’ll like it,” Sven assured him. “If not, then you’re definitely a top.”  
  
“Does it always hurt?” Novak asked, wishing he could keep the fear out of his voice.  
  
“Not like the first time,” Sven responded rather casually. “Trust me, it won’t be the pain you remember.”  
  
Just the suggestion of pleasure beyond what he’d experienced with Roger so far was incredibly appealing, so much so that he wanted to seek his Swiss boyfriend out that very moment, regardless of the time of night. It was only his lack of invitation that held Novak back.  
  
Novak tried to think of anything else he’d like to ask Sven, knowing that this was probably a one-time deal and it would be his only chance. The only thing that intrigued him was something that Ana said about her coach earlier that day. She said that Novak could trust Sven with his secrets because he came out at Novak’s age, and not by choice.  
  
“What made you come out?” Novak asked, hoping he was not pushing the boundaries too far. “Ana said it was not exactly by choice,” he added, hoping the mention of their mutual friend would keep him from getting mad.  
  
“Did she?” Sven asked, sounding more amused than mad. “Then I’m sure she wanted me to tell you. I didn’t retire because of the injury, that was just well timed, or maybe my body’s own surrender. I was out partying with some friends at a gay club. Some pictures were taken and sold to tabloids. The ATP managed to dwindle down the story into just outrageous partying, but only with my agreement to bow out gracefully. I knew I could not let that story get out. Back then, being openly gay was toxic, and I didn’t want to be toxic to the game or my country.”  
  
“All over some party pictures? They have tons of those of me and nobody cares,” Novak commented absentmindedly. He was shocked at the story. Did one detail matter so much? Would that happen to him if he got caught?  
  
“Just be careful. Your generation is bringing a whole new fanbase to tennis. You, Nadal, Federer, Roddick. You guys have brought hundreds of thousands of fans to the game in the last few years and that might be jeopardized if someone gives them a reason to think tennis is the game of fags,” Sven said bitterly, not toward Novak, but with clear disdain for the situation.  
  
For a moment, Novak considered telling Sven that Federer is also involved, merely to prove the man’s point further, but he knew that was not his right to do. Sven was right; they had to stay a secret for the sake of tennis. As much as Novak would like to proudly announce to the world that he gets to be Roger Federer's boyfriend, his first and hopefully his only boyfriend, he knew that if their relationship ever got out it would be the end of both their careers.  
  
\-----------------------------------------------------

Roger was thinking about what exactly being in a relationship entailed. He had already given up on his no fraternization with other players during tournaments rule months ago because avoiding Novak when they are actually in the same city just seemed silly; and yet, he realized that being together during the Majors concerned him. Roger did not care much about the smaller tournaments. At this point in his career, would anyone really remember him as the 2007 Cincinnati Masters champion? Or the 2008 winner of the Gerry Weber Open? No, probably not. Roger cared about those tournaments, just as he cares about every tennis match he plays, but the Grand Slams are his priority. Maybe that's why Roger has been hesitant to contact Novak all this week.  
  
At first Roger told himself he was just too busy, but then he found himself with gaps of time that he spent thinking of Novak, when really, he could have been with the Serb. During one particularly long stretch of free time, Roger deduced that it was not his schedule that was holding them back. Something about being in Paris reminded Roger that they are competitors, on a battlefield that was particularly sacred to him because he had yet to come away from it victorious and he could not afford the distraction that was his boyfriend, no matter how much he wanted to see him.  
  
One lengthy glimpse of Novak in the player’s lounge the next day convinced Roger that though a sleepover might be out of the question, he could not ignore Novak any longer. According to Diana, one of the reasons the idolized Roger-Mirka relationship is currently in shambles is because they did not make time for each other, early on and after fame hit. Roger would not make that mistake with Novak.  
  
And so he found himself in the locker room waiting for Novak to come into sight. Roger saw his boyfriend wander over toward the shower area with Murray several minutes before, at the time wondering why Murray was still in Paris after his loss two rounds ago. He was expecting them to return soon. Roger had already finished his match earlier this morning, and after a good rest, he returned to Roland Garros to use the practice courts for some serving drills. He knew Novak would finish off his opponent quickly since he was particularly fond of breaking serve to keep the scores relatively low so it always looked like an easy win. Knowing this, Roger planned to be in the locker room at this specific time.  
  
Roger hoped nobody was watching him as he tried to make himself look busy while waiting. He had been slowly alternating between putting on his shirt and taking it off for the better part of a half hour, which might seem strange to anyone who cared to look over for more than a minute. His lockers were in a particularly private area with few other lockers around him, the perks of being the number one seed, and they were just close enough to a walkway so that he would not feel trapped in.  
  
He was in the process of shrugging off his shirt when Novak came into sight on a nearby mirror. Roger edged himself close to the walkway, watching the mirror and hoping his timing would be right. He would hate to accidently catch Murray’s attention instead. Just as they were moving closer, Novak moved to the other side of Murray in the reflection and Roger was cursing his luck, thinking that Murray was in the way. It was not until they were actually passing by that Roger saw that the mirror image was backward and Novak was actually on the side closest to him, making it easier for him to grab the Serb by one slightly damp arm and pull him into the alcove of lockers.  
  
Novak looked startled, but only for a moment. Roger felt his lips twitch into a smirk that he hoped was kind of sexy as Novak moved closer. Roger pulled him forward roughly with his hand on the back of Novak’s neck and kissed his boyfriend more forcefully than he ordinarily would. There was limited time and they both needed all they could get from each other before Murray came around looking for his friend.  
  
Novak had his arms wrapped around Roger’s neck, keeping them firmly together while Roger’s hands roamed downward to the towel that was tied around Novak’s hips. Roger knew better than to strip the piece of cloth from him in a place where they could easily be discovered. Excuses could be made for just about anything as long as nobody’s cock is out. Roger happily settled for a firm, two handed grip on Novak’s ass. Just as his hands settled comfortably in place, Roger peeked open an eye and saw a curious-looking Rafa pass by with a quirked eyebrow.  
  
The Spaniard was gone in an instant and with him went Roger’s thoughts of anything but the two of them in the moment. Frankly, he had more pressing matters, like the gentle roll of Novak’s hips that was currently providing friction in all the right places. Roger was not sure if it was their maddeningly hot kiss or his not-so-subtle squeezing that made Novak shiver slightly and moan into his mouth, but Roger found himself incapable of stopping either so he hoped Novak’s reaction was out of pleasure.  
  
Novak was kissing his way down Roger’s neck and as he continued past Roger’s collarbone he wondered how far the Serb was going to go. They both went silently still when a Scottish accent reverberated through the large room. “Nole? Where are you?”  
  
Novak was scuffling to compose himself as the voice drew closer, making sure his towel was not only securely wrapped around his waist but making an effort to hide his obvious erection in the folds of the fabric. The voice was growing nearer and Novak’s anxiety heightened. He was about to be caught by the person he’d most like to hide this relationship from and there was nothing he could do at this point. How would he explain his sudden absence?  
  
“Oh, hi Rafa,” Andy’s voice said suddenly, just around the corner from them. “Have you seen Novak?”  
  
“I seen him,” Nadal offered in his usual cheery voice.  
  
“Where is he?” Murray asked after several moments when it seemed no elaboration was coming.  
  
“I not know,” Rafa said plainly.  
  
“Where was he when you saw him?” Andy rephrased his question, clearly getting frustrated with the Spaniard.  
  
“I see him this morning. On the court. He play next to me at practice and I say ‘Hi Nole,’” Rafa said cheerfully. Novak nodded to himself. Rafa was not wrong, that happened, but from Andy’s exasperated sigh that was not the answer he was looking for. Novak decided to ease the situation, offering Roger an apologetic smile before joining the others in the hallway.  
  
“There you are! Where did you go? I was looking all over,” Murray asked, not hiding his annoyance. He was right in the middle of what he thought was a pretty good story when Novak disappeared.  
  
“He is been over there,” Rafa said, pointing behind them to a more deserted part of the locker room where Novak had wandered out from.  
  
Murray rolled his eyes. “I thought you only saw him this morning.”  
  
“I see him in morning _and_ just before I see you,” Rafa said simply. Novak could tell he was putting on an act. Rafa could weave a web of confusing lies faster than anyone because of the language barrier and the innocent honesty that others have come to expect from him.  
  
“And what was he doing?” Murray asked, leaving the question open to both of them.  
  
“I tripped over a bag,” Novak said quickly. Rafa had done well with his lies so far, but Novak did not want to chance it that his luck would run out.  
  
“A bag? Over there. Most of those players are out, only Federer’s locker is over there.”  
  
“Yeah, it was his bag,” Novak replied, wishing that he did not have to bring Roger into this.  
  
“Oh, that is why you yell at him?” Rafa asked, joining in on the story.  
  
“Of course, he may think he’s king of the world, but I wasn’t going to let him just leave his bag in my way. Actually it was more of a kick than a trip,” Novak said, letting his arrogance show and trying to imagine Roger’s amused smile when he overheard. Murray seemed almost relieved by his cockiness, like everything was back to normal, releasing him from interrogation instantly.  
  
“You showed him,” Murray said with equal confidence, as if he had actually been there for the spat and declared his friend victorious. Novak just laughed.  
  
“I sure did.”  
  
\----------------------------------------------------------

Roger was almost embarrassed by the score. Straight sets: 6-1, 6-3, 6-0.

Part of him expected to lose to Nadal, he had learned to be prepared for that result over the last couple of years, but to lose so quickly in the final of a Grand Slam was an amateur move that any true champion should be ashamed of, and he certainly felt the shame. Roger had never won the French, but he certainly had not lost here this badly in years. Roger would not be surprised if his fans had lost faith in him entirely after this display; the crowd certainly did after the first set. They were not very happy with the speedy, uneventful match that was hardly worth the expense they paid to see it, unless they enjoyed watching Rafa win with ease.  
  
The day got even worse when Roger faced the reporters. Not only were they harsh about his performance in the final, but his mono diagnosis had been leaked online and since he had not made an official statement, they were desperate to get one out of him right then while they had his attention. Allison stepped in quickly to redirect the questions and Roger was grateful his publicist was there to cut the conference off once it detoured.  
  
Roger sent his team back to the hotel. He could not face them right now. Eventually they would have the “what went wrong” discussion and plan how to avoid making the same mistakes in the future. He promised they would do that…eventually, but for now their presence reminded him of all the similar meetings in the past, including the one here in Paris last year where Roger said he would never lose to Rafa at Roland Garros again. _Great, so now I’m a loser and a liar,_ Roger thought with disdain.  
  
Mirka seemed hesitant to leave him, knowing his post-big-loss routine all too well. She recommended the hotel bar since they were already paying for discreetness and no reporters were allowed inside to watch him drink himself into oblivion. Roger agreed, knowing Mirka would worry less if he was keeping his reputation safe. For now, he just wanted to be alone, and luckily the stadium was empty enough that he could hang around without being disturbed.  
  
He found a bench near a window overlooking Chatrier Centre Court, noticing the peaceful beauty of the red clay when it was not in use. The court had already been groomed in preparation for the women’s final the next morning. Looking over the stands, Roger noticed a singular form in the sea of bleachers not far from him. It was a woman. That much he could tell from her dark flowing hair that was shining brightly in the sun, but from the way she was dressed, Roger found himself thinking she would be more appropriately described as a girl than a woman. He felt drawn to her for some reason and before he knew it Roger was weaving through the seats until he was right behind her.  
  
She must have heard him come up behind her, but she did not turn around. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked in a familiar accent, watching as little pieces of clay swirled around just above the court, caught in a gust of wind that was trapped in the stadium.  
  
Roger smiled and stepped over a row of chairs to sit beside her. “I think about it all year,” he admitted.  
  
She must have recognized his voice because she turned instantly to face him with surprised eyes. This was the first time Roger had truly looked at her, aside from her shiny hair and fuchsia Adidas warm-ups, and he too was surprised by who he found beside him. Roger was looking into the bright brown eyes of Ana Ivanovic, his boyfriend’s best friend and the coincidence was not lost on him.  
  
Ana seemed speechless for a moment as she gawked at him, whether it was from his recently tarnished icon status that some still might consider quite intimidating, or perhaps her intimate knowledge of his relationship with Novak that made her stare. Roger did not know, but he felt the need to put her at ease somehow. Tennis, they could talk about tennis.  
  
“Are you nervous?” Roger asked, sensing that she must have had some reason for being in the stands aside from the beauty of the unoccupied court.  
  
She looked at him and Roger could tell she was wondering if it was appropriate to share her pre-match anxieties with Roger Federer. Like she did not think he would care. It seems Ana decided that Roger was indeed a real person capable of listening because she admitted, “This is where I messed up last year. My first Slam final and I was too nervous to actually _play_.”  
  
Roger thought back to the early days when making it to the finals of a Grand Slam would have been an honor, not a disappointment. “The nerves will always be there,” Roger commented in a way that made him seem like a wise elder. “There is always something on the line, whether it’s your first Slam final or your fifteenth. But you don’t get there by luck. Your talent got you to the final; you’ve just got to trust your game to take you all the way. At worst, you’re the second best woman in the tournament.”  
  
Roger could see Ana taking mental notes and he wondered if his words would be so wise if he did not have the titles to back them up. She looked somewhat reassured and Roger was happy that he could make someone else’s day a little easier.  
  
“I saw your match,” she said sheepishly and Roger could tell by her deep blush that it took a lot for her to muster the guts to say it.  
  
“Not my best,” Roger admitted, surprised by the humor in his own voice. It seemed that the weight of his loss was getting easier to bear the longer he chose to not think about it. “But second place isn’t too bad. If you win tomorrow maybe I’ll be taking French Open advice from you,” he joked. Roger found himself hoping she could pull it off, even though he rarely picked favorites in women’s tennis. She was kind and on a day like today, he really appreciated it.  
  
“So what does the famous Roger Federer do after a Slam loss?” asked Ana in her best reporter voice.  
  
“Drink,” Roger responded with a chuckle. That was his only plan so far.  
  
“Want company?” Ana asked sweetly.  
  
For a moment Roger thought she was hitting on him, but in the fifteen minutes he’d known her, he did not get the feeling she would be so forward. “Should you be drinking the night before your match?” he asked in what he hoped was not a scolding way.  
  
She laughed. “I was not talking about _my_ company,” Ana said simply, obviously quite amused. “He promised me a pep talk over dinner, but I could send him to the bar after that.”  
  
Ana did not have to say who _he_ was, Roger knew instantly she was talking about Novak, and more importantly, she knew about them. He assumed Novak must have told someone about them, especially in the early stages when things were a bit confusing, but he did not know which of Novak’s friends he would turn to in a moment like that. Roger was pleased that he chose Ana, who Roger was beginning to like very much.  
  
“I bet he didn’t like losing to Rafa either,” Roger joked. _Nole doesn’t like losing to anyone,_ Roger thought fondly.  
  
“He can’t stand losing to anyone,” said Ana, rolling her eyes as she spoke his thoughts exactly. Roger smiled brightly, amused that he'd noticed something about Novak in their short time together that the Serb's longtime best friend knew from years of experience.  
  
“I’m not sure how much drinking I’ll do,” Roger said, briefly reconsidering his plan. “But you could send him to my room when you’re done with dinner. I think the mini bar is stocked enough for two.”  
  
“Will do,” Ana said, trying to hide her satisfaction as Roger scribbled down his room number on some paper and handed it over.  
  
As he walked away toward the player’s lounge, Ana thought about how lovely it was to meet Roger Federer, whom she recently decided will be her new best friend, and how fantastically surreal it is that her childhood best friend grew up to date the best tennis player of all time.  
  
\-------------------------------------------------------  
  
Roger de-activated the automatic lock on the hotel door and continued with his planned sulking. He felt slightly better after talking to Ana, and hoped some time with Novak would improve his mood, but for now Roger was decidedly somber and not quite sober.  
  
He had his red folder on Nadal out, the many pages inside spread over the bed. Roger kept looking over his notes, wondering what exactly was it about Rafa’s game that made him unbeatable on clay, and sipping the most expensive bottle of beer he’d ever had. _Damn mini-bar prices_ , Roger thought angrily, knowing his frustration had nothing to do with the excessively overpriced beverages.  
  
He heard movement near the door and felt his heart leap. Roger slowly gathered his papers which were spread across the bed, mostly just to make himself seem busy when Novak walked in.  
  
“You know what I say?” Novak said as he entered the room, dropping a small Adidas bag on the floor by the end of the bed where he also slipped off his shoes. Novak looked over at Roger to make sure he was listening. “I say fuck him.”  
  
Roger smiled, feeling better already. He moved the folder to the side table and patted the bed for Novak to join him. “Who?”

“Rafa. I say fuck him,” Novak said, plopping down on the bed beside Roger.  
  
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Roger replied cheekily, turning to him with an amused smirk.  
  
Novak smiled, shoving him lightly on the shoulder. “You know what I mean.”  
  
Roger did know, in fact the two of them were some of the few players on the tour that were at Nadal’s skill level, but still lost to him consistently. It was far more frustrating to know he’s not necessarily better than you, he just wins more.  
  
“At least you took him to a breaker,” Roger commented naturally, his attempt to cheer Novak up surprising himself. Since when was he feeling well enough to make someone else feel better? “I got four games,” he added bitterly, mostly because he was not ready to give up on the subject of his awful match. He wanted to be the one getting comforted.  
  
Novak snuggled up to him. “You had a tough match with Monfils,” Novak said in a much softer tone, which made Roger think the Serb had come over with the intent to cheer him up. Strategy one must have been to hate on Nadal, and Roger did not take the bait so they moved to strategy two. Roger was curious to see what exactly that entailed.  
  
“I _made_ it a tough match. And I had a day of rest in between matches. That shouldn’t have been a factor in the final.”  
  
“Well, you were _injured_ …” Novak said carefully.  
  
“Injur—” Roger started to question, but then he remembered the awful press conference and their forceful inquiries about his health. “Oh, that,” he said sheepishly, knowing he should have told Novak a long time ago. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, it hasn’t been contagious since before Australia, before we were together. So I couldn’t have given it to you.”  
  
Novak’s hand was resting on his chest, fingers tracing a delicate pattern of circles that was becoming familiar to Roger. “You didn’t. I was negative,” said Novak rationally. “And you don’t have to apologize. If it doesn’t affect me, you don’t have to tell me.”  
  
Roger felt himself calm down. He really thought the Mono thing could be their first fight, or even worse, their last fight as a couple. And Roger knew he was not ready for that.  
  
“I do wish you would’ve told me sooner,” Novak said in a jovial tone, an odd contrast to his prior mellowness. “Then I could’ve told you that you’re not allowed to mope. If you do lose, Mono is a pretty damn good excuse, especially against Nadal. Those matches take the most energy and if you’re in a constant state of fatigue, nobody can expect you to win.”  
  
Roger was convinced, at least for now. He had not been considering how bad Mono can truly be, because mostly it had not bothered him much so far and he hated making excuses. Roger had heard of players having to take months off, sometimes years, and he was lucky enough to be relatively healthy despite the illness.  
  
Novak must have sensed his lighter mood because suddenly his hand was lower, tracing the skin around Roger’s navel through his shirt. Roger had considered inviting Novak over before he saw Ana, but initially decided against it because of his foul mood, which was hardly conducive to boyfriend bonding, but now he found himself in the perfect mood to be with Nole. With all concerns about tennis pushed aside, he was free to be with the Serb like he had been wanting all week.  
  
Roger still did not know how exactly Novak managed to get his shirt off  while he was laying there, but he was grateful for its absence when Novak’s toned chest collapsed against his. There was boldness in the air, floating along with the thick, heavy lust from their painfully long separation that made the room feel stuffy and fiery hot. It was not _the_ night, Roger could feel that. As much as he wanted to have sex with Novak, dreamed about it really, a part of him knew they had to wait for the right moment, and for now that voice was overriding his libido.  
  
As much as he’d hate to admit it, Roger was a bit tired from his match, not to mention slightly inebriated, so he was a bit more passive than usual. Novak did not seem to mind. He was placing hot open mouthed kisses along Roger’s throat, working his way down to nip at the sensitive skin on his collarbone as his hands roamed freely over Roger’s chest.  
  
Roger was so lost in the sensations that he nearly jumped when he felt cool moisture on the shell of his ear. “I know how to make you feel better,” Novak whispered, his breath hot against Roger’s slightly wet ear. He was going to make some vague comment about him obviously feeling much better already, but the words never made it out of Roger’s mouth.  
  
Novak’s lips were moving with his in a feverish kiss, his tongue tracing Roger’s bottom lip, begging for entrance. Roger willingly obeyed, opening his mouth for Novak to explore. Just when Roger began to think he could come just from that kiss, Novak moved lower, kissing his way down Roger’s chest. After an experimental touch of tongue between rib bones that made Roger gasp breathlessly, Novak began to lick the path downward that could only have one destination.  
  
Novak looked up at him with a naughty smirk before nibbling softly at one of his hipbones, making a love bite that would surely be visible for days. Roger arched off the bed, giving Novak the opportunity to hook his fingers around the waistband of Roger’s boxers and slide them down his hips. Roger could feel the excitement and anticipation running through his veins, like he had been waiting for this forever and never knew it. He must be high off adrenaline right now because nothing else could make his heart beat _that fast_ or maybe it’s just Novak’s hot breath ghosting over his cock and the way that the Serb’s eyes turn dark green when he’s overcome by lust. Roger had never felt so wanted.  
  
There was a predatory look in Novak’s eyes as he placed a delicate kiss at the base of Roger’s cock, making the older man wonder vaguely how someone can be so exotically hot and impossibly sweet at the same time. Novak was taking his time, going slow as if he wanted to make sure he was doing everything right and Roger was perfectly happy to be his test subject. Novak licked the underside of his cock all the way up to the tip which he swiped his tongue across experimentally. When he pulled away, Novak was smirking that damn arrogant grin that Roger could only assumed meant that the Serb knew what Roger did from the first touch of his lips, Novak was going to be damn good at this.  
  
Roger groaned at the sensation of wet heat surrounding his cock and he fought the urge to thrust up into it. Novak sensed his struggle, moving a hand to grip Roger’s hip, keeping him firmly on the bed. The other hand snaked around to stroke the lower part of Roger’s cock where Novak's lips could not reach. Roger could feel the Serb’s eyes on him, watching him hungrily as he squirmed and grasped the bedspread in desperation.  
  
Roger must have regained enough control of his hips that Novak trusted him not to buck up and choke him because the Serb moved his hand away. Roger missed the touch instantly, turning his head so he could see where that hand went. He let loose a strangled moan when he saw Novak’s hand disappear into his own briefs, stroking his cock frantically. Seeing Novak that turned on from sucking him nearly sent Roger over the edge. He could feel himself getting dangerously close to release and tried to warn Novak.  
  
“Nol, I’m uhhhh so close,” he choked out, his breaths coming in heavy pants. Roger’s hands found Novak’s shoulders and he tried to push him off thinking the Serb must not have heard him.  
  
Novak chuckled around his cock, pushing Roger’s hands away and sucking harder, but it was only a couple more seconds before Roger lost all control, the vibrations from Nole’s laugh pushing him into oblivion.  
  
Roger laid there motionless for all of a minute before he heard the sound of skin on skin. He pulled Novak up to him instantly; if anyone was going to stroke Nole’s cock it was going to be Roger. They were lying so close that Novak was practically on top of him, their faces only inches away. Roger felt his way down the Serb’s chest, his eyes never leaving Novak’s.  
  
He wrapped a firm hand around Novak’s cock and pumped in a steady rhythm. Roger watched as green eyes disappeared behind Nole’s eyelids and he threw his head back against the pillow. He was closer to the edge than Roger had thought and he was not sure if he should pick up the pace to be kind or make it last as long as possible.  
  
“Faster…God!” He got his answer and Roger eagerly complied, calling on every flick of the wrist and gentle squeeze he knew to get Novak to completion. There was something incredibly intimate about being close to Novak like this, watching every emotion as it passed through his eyes, seeing the effects of every touch and hearing each labored breath growing closer to the moment of release. That was the part that got him, the whimper-like moan that Novak tried to suppress as he came in Roger’s hand. If he was not so damn tired Roger knew he would be half hard from just the sound of it, but he figured it was all for the best, otherwise they'd be up all night.  
  
Roger held him close as Novak recovered, nuzzling him affectionately on the neck. When it seemed Novak’s breathing had evened out, Roger stole a kiss and was surprised at what he nearly said. “I…” he paused, his tired mind forgetting his words. Then he remembered who sent Novak to him. “I met Ana today,” he said lightly.  
  
Novak smiled with a look of understanding. “That’s how she knew your room number,” he said, glad to have that explained. “She told me that she overheard one of your people say it.”  
  
Roger smiled, amused by her methods. He could’ve guessed that she would be subtle about telling him to come over, but making up a story? “I wrote it down for her,” he explained. “I like her, she’s nice,” he added and Novak seemed to light up with his approval.  
  
“You don’t mind that I told her?” Novak ask hesitantly, not sure if Roger had realized how much she actually knew.  
  
“Not at all. If you trust her, then I do too,” he said, ruffling Novak’s hair affectionately. “Weird how she’s dating Verdasco though. I always thought he was…” Roger trailed off, trying to think of a gentle way to put it.  
  
“A poof? Me too,” Novak said bluntly, not seeming to care that they too were ‘poofs.’ “I could’ve sworn him and Lopez had something going on.”  
  
“I'm sure there is, or at least there was at some point,” Roger confirmed. “Maybe he’s straightened out?” Roger suggested, not wanting to insult the judgment of his new friend’s dating choices.  
  
“Or she’s just a cover story so people won’t look into the obvious,” Novak said, not believing it for a moment. The most affection he’s seen from them was a peck on the cheek, and that was in public. True, Fernando was only in boxers when he answered the door at the last tournament, but when Ana came out a minute later she was practically wearing footie pajamas she was so covered up. Whatever was going on between them certainly did not seem sexual, at least not nearly as sexual as whatever was going on with Fernando and Feliciano.  
  
“Are you going to tell her?” Roger asked curiously. He had known about Novak’s close friendship with Ana since the two started on the tour, but now that he’d actually met Ana, Roger was curious about their relationship.  
  
“Nope. I don’t think she likes him _that_ much. She hardly ever mentions him,” Novak answered amusedly, thinking of Ana’s reaction if he told her that her boyfriend is gay. It would probably be somewhere along the lines of ‘just because you’re gay now, and Federer is gay doesn’t mean every tennis guy is gay! You have to leave some of them for me.’ Then he thought of Verdasco and immediately got a feeling of dislike. _Something is just off about that guy,_ Novak thought. “I’d hate to be wrong about them. Verdasco would send the whole Armada after me.”  
  
Roger laughed at the way Novak made the Spaniards’ innocent nickname seem intimidating. Roger had always wrote them off as pretty boys with tennis in their hearts, but their love for the game did not always translate to victory, except at the Davis Cup where they were oddly successful. “You’re scared of the Armada?” Roger questioned playfully. “Don’t worry, I won’t let them get you,” he teased, wincing slightly when Novak smacked him on the arm, even though it did not actually hurt.  
  
“I’m not scared,” Novak defended, refusing to be the damsel in distress, even in the made up situation. Was he ever really going to get into a fight with the Armada? Probably not. “I could take them,” he said arrogantly, like a peacock fluffing up its feathers.  
  
“Sure you could,” Roger humored him. “I agree though, not telling Ana is best.” Roger wanted to cut Novak off from that line of thought before he ran off and challenged them to a duel or something equally stupid and dangerous. If Ana was not worried about Verdasco’s possible feelings for his doubles partner, then maybe they should forget about it before they both lose a friend, and piss off the Armada.  
  
 _I wonder if Rafa knows…_ was Roger’s last thought before falling asleep, not even remembering to hate on himself some more for his awful match, or making a mental note to change his post-big-loss routine. After a hellish day on court, Roger would much rather wake up with Novak than a killer hangover.


	14. The Olympics

“Damn. Damn. Damn.”    
  
“Mirka? Is that you?” asked a man’s voice groggily over the phone speaker.   
  
“Yes, of course it’s me,” the Swiss woman replied sternly. “Your cell phone has caller ID, you knew it was me when you answered.”    
  
“Well maybe I would have looked if it wasn’t 3 a.m.”   
  
“Fine. Back to the reason I called. They were all negative. Every damn woman on tour was negative. The men too, except you and Roger of course. Why did I even bother with that test if it doesn’t tell me anything? It just made it look more suspicious that only you two are infected,” Mirka ranted.    
  
“They weren’t looking for suspicious links between players, just a tournament to blame. Roger and I have similar schedules. _We_ planned it that way to see each other more. They’ll be looking at the December tournaments, maybe January. No worries.”   
  
Mirka scoffed at his lack of concern. “I know they aren’t looking for a person to blame. I told them what to look for. I’m just worried. If he ever found out I gave it to him, he’d be…”    
  
“About as angry as you were when I gave it to you?” he suggested.   
  
“I’d be lucky if he was only that angry. I should’ve expected you’d have some sort of disease from your questionable sex escapades. I knew your whorish habits years ago when I first met you. I guess I assumed you were more careful. But I should’ve known better.”    
  
“Harsh.”   
  
“Truth. It’s your lifestyle, own up to it. My point was, Roger and I have a commitment. A six year commitment that I stupidly broke for…” she trailed off, choosing not to say something hurtful. Even she knew it was rude to wake someone up in the middle of the night to insult them. “It was fine when there was nothing to link us together. Nobody would ever find out, we were so careful. But now there’s incriminating evidence against us and apparently mono isn’t as common as I thought.”    
  
“First, if you were actually breaking that commitment, I’d be a much happier man. I don’t think Roger would care about a little kissing on occasion. ‘We were drunk’ is always a good excuse. We’re not as guilty as it looks. If anyone would understand that, Roger would.”   
  
“God, don’t you understand anything? It doesn’t matter how far you take it, it’s still wrong. An emotional affair is just as hurtful as a sexual one.”    
  
“And yet you’ve wanted to see me more and more these past few months. Even after the mono. Where’s the guilt, M?”   
  
“You know very well why that is. If he’s not alone, then why should I be?”    
  
“Do you really think he’s cheating? We’re talking about Roger Federer here. He’s probably the most decent guy I know. Besides, I can’t think of a woman on tour that would tempt him. He doesn’t even talk to them. Roger adores you, Mirka.” The man sounded annoyed, probably because he had to be the one to remind Mirka that her boyfriend loves her. Is that really the paramour’s job?   
  
“Obviously it’s not one of them, I know that now. That’s why I made sure they were tested too. I thought it was that twat Sharapova. She was far too chummy with him last year. Good thing she’s going to be out on injury for awhile,” Mirka replied bitterly.    
  
“That’s an awful thing to say. And don’t you read Tennis Watch? She’s always out clubbing or modeling. She doesn’t have time to pursue Roger. And he wouldn’t do that, especially not with someone so young. They have nothing in common.”   
  
“Maybe it’s not her, but he is seeing someone on the side. I’ve heard him talking at night, talking like someone is there. And sometimes it’s so quiet that I know he can’t be in his room. And he’s been so damn happy lately. He’s playing the worst tennis of his life and he doesn’t seem to care at all.”    
  
“That doesn’t mean anything—”   
  
“We haven’t had sex in six months,” she interrupted, her voice sounding uncharacteristically shaky. “I know men and I know him. There is someone else.”    
  
“Then why not let it be? If he’s happy with this new girl, then leave him to it and we can be happy together too.”   
  
“God, you don’t get it. I love you, really I do, but you’re not the marrying kind. I’ve had my fun and enjoyed my tennis career while it lasted. But it’s time to be a grown up. I built a life with Roger, and we have plans for the future together. You’d be giving up random hookups and short-lived relationships with models. But I’ve been with Roger six years and I’m not going to give that up."    
  
\-------------------------------------------------------------   
  
_Red and white are pretty fucking beautiful_ , Novak thought as he looked over the crowd of countries, all proudly sporting their national colors, his eyes settling on the mob of people sporting the flag of Switzerland on the back of their windbreakers. They were across the stadium from him, so Novak could not pick Roger out from the crowd, but just knowing they were in the same place made him giddy.     
  
It was the day of the Olympic opening ceremony and the athletes had been called to the stadium first thing that morning to practice their Parade of Nations entrances. They would run through the event procedure several times and were warned the rehearsal would be an all day event. It would certainly be tedious to spend a day standing around idly, or watching the performances as they walked around in a giant circle. Most of the athletes had been in Beijing for almost a week, so they had adjusted to the time change, but still a day starting at eight in the morning and not ending until past nine was a bit ridiculous.   
  
Novak was not thinking about that anymore, he was planning how he could use the chaos of the multicultural crowd to get closer to Roger. _Maybe on the lunch break_ , he told himself, wishing Ana was there to cover for him. Novak thought about texting his friend, but he did not want to upset her. She was so excited to play in her first Olympic games, especially after winning the French, because being here in Beijing together, each with a Grand Slam under their belts, was proof that they had finally made it. Novak knew her hand injury must be serious if Ana would miss out on all of this.     
  
Novak was left with Jelena as the only person from his country he knew, and wished he had made an effort to network with the other athletes at the Serbian Olympian meetings and various events they all attended. He felt a little lonely without Ana to talk to, all of the other tennis players being spread around with their countrymen. Jelena was making an effort to include him and he was grateful…sort of. Her choices in friends were not necessarily his taste, but at least it was company. Jelena was always the social butterfly of the tennis playing Serbs, Ana was too shy and Novak was not very good at first impressions.   
  
Jelena had taken an interest in a water polo player that Novak was not quite sure if he liked. The guy was kind of an asshole to Novak, but in such a subtle way that it could come across as just joking. Novak was not sure if he hated the guy or wanted to take notes. The thing that bothered him most about Mladan was that he was trying way too hard to look cool in front of Jelena and his water polo friends, which included poking fun at Novak and all male tennis players in general. Apparently it was a girly sport. He kept saying things like he’s a “real man” unlike those “sissy boy tennis players.” At least he had the decency to tack on a meaningless “no offense” to every blatant insult. He totally meant the offense.     
  
It came down to a comparison of physique. _Apparently juiced up, likely steroid-enhanced mega muscles are the true measure of a man,_ Novak thought bitterly as the water polo player challenged him to a test of fitness. They were evenly matched on push-ups and crunches, both easily knocking out a hundred of each. Without access to a pull up bar in the stadium, how much they could bench press became the true teller.   
  
Since the stadium was brand new and cleaned for the events, there were no heavy objects lying around out of use. Jelena volunteered to be a human weight for them to lift and Novak rolled his eyes at the obvious flirting gesture. Novak knew he would lose this competition when they started, tennis players had a lean build; they were not supposed to be bulky muscle guys. The whole thing was stupid, but Novak would have the final laugh. Water polo started bright and early the next morning, and all this exertion would certainly tire Mladan out, despite his manliness. Tennis did not start until later that week, so Novak had all the time in the world to soothe his muscles if they were sore.    
  
He laid on the ground and Jelena lowered her back onto his hands. Novak was able to hold her up, slowly lower her down to his chest and back up. He only did it once because it was not all that easy and he did not want to risk injury. Ana would kill him if he too missed their big Olympic debut because he got hurt horsing around with Jelena’s suitor. The other guy did four more than Novak, but it was obvious he was just looking for some time to innocently grope Jelena’s ass. Novak rolled his eyes, frustrated that he just wasted the past two hours of his life when he could have been staring longingly at Roger across the stadium.   
  
They were lining up the last group of countries now. It was ordered alphabetically by China’s alphabet, which Novak thought was confusing and unnecessary until he saw that it landed Serbia two countries behind Switzerland. Jelena was suddenly by his side, dragging Tipsarevic along with her, locking their arms and claiming that they need to stick together. Novak rolled his eyes, but let her hold on. At least it looked like he had friends.   
  
Novak looked over the Swiss group, trying to spot Roger in the sea of red jackets. He was not standing with Stanislas, which seemed unusual to Novak. Roger was always with Stan when his country got together. _Where is he?_ Novak thought anxiously, wondering if he would have any fun here at all if both Ana and Roger were not around. He suddenly appeared strolling away from a table with official-looking people in suits, a small Swiss flag in his hands. Novak thought it was an odd display of patriotism for Roger to carry around a mini version of his nation’s flag. It was not until Novak spotted the flag bearer of his own country, Jasna Sekaric, carrying a similar model of the Serbian flag that he realized they were miniature versions of what the flag bearers would be carrying later.     
  
Novak was surprised he had not thought of it before. Of course Roger would be Switzerland’s flag bearer. In fact, of all the countries’ carriers the Swiss man was by far the most accomplished. He was the obvious choice and yet he never mentioned it in all their talk about the event. _Maybe it was just **that**_ _obvious_. Novak felt his lips twist into an amused smile as he watched Roger. He looked kind of dopy carrying the dainty six inch version of the Swiss flag, waving it enthusiastically as they walked the giant circular arena.   
  
Novak was beaming with pride, his eyes a little moister than usual. It was a strange feeling for him, being so deeply proud of someone. When good things happened to other people, he was usually the first to get jealous and bitter, but seeing Roger with that damn miniature flag made Novak feel as if it was his accomplishment too. In a couple of hours the whole world would be watching Roger with similar awe, and Novak was honored to be a part of his life.   
  
Jelena followed his gaze and for a moment, Novak thought she was onto him, like she would instantly know why he could not keep his eyes off the number one player.     
  
“Maybe next time,” she said, patting his arm reassuringly, obviously assuming the tears in his eyes that he refused to let fall were out of anger or jealousy, and not knowing that for once, he was thinking of someone else. “That is, if you win singles, doubles and a couple more Slams. Then you’ll have my vote,” she joked and Novak nodded along absentmindedly.   
  
Before he knew it they were done with the first run-through and Novak had not even looked up at the stands where the fans will be, or the theatrics going on around them. His whole focus was on Roger, watching him and trying to figure out how they could run into each other. He did notice that Roger was not really looking up into the crowd either, and when he did look around, his eyes looked tired. Novak smiled, knowing exactly how he would approach Roger on the lunch break.    
  
“Maybe on the next run-through you should look up at the crowd. Smile, or even wave,” Jelena suggested amusedly, never letting go an opportunity to playfully pick at him, especially when he was so mysteriously distracted. “Wouldn’t want them to think you’re unfriendly.”   
  
Novak glared. He knew that people already thought he was unfriendly, some of them even thought he was downright mean. What was it they called him? Djerk? He tried to focus harder on the rehearsal, knowing that if he ever wanted to acquire a fan base he would have to play to the crowd sometimes.    
  
\-----------------------------------------------   
  
Novak waded through the flood of people pouring into the stadium’s food court, anxious to scarf something down in the one hour of break they had. Some of the lines looked like they would take a whole hour to wait through, so Novak headed for the one place that was relatively unoccupied. Strangely enough, even though it was still morning, the Starbucks was not nearly as packed. Novak saw Roger near the front of the line for Subway, and since he could not casually cut in line with all those people, he would have to meet up with him after they got their food. Most people forgot that Starbucks had deli sandwiches and pastries, probably because they were ridiculously over-priced, but it worked out well for Novak because he could get coffee and lunch quickly.    
  
Roger was easy enough to spot, sitting alone at one of the few tables that were not overcrowded with people. Because of the scarcity of seats, Novak had good reason to join his boyfriend, though bringing him coffee might look suspicious. He went to great lengths to make it look like a peace offering, just in case someone was watching.   
  
“This seat taken?” he asked sheepishly, offering the extra coffee before sitting down without invitation.     
  
Roger tried to look annoyed, Novak could tell he was making a real effort, and to the outside world it might have appeared that way, but his determined scowl could not keep the smile out of his eyes. “What’s this?” he asked, eyeing the coffee skeptically.   
  
“Vanilla Latte,” Novak answered, taking a sip of his own. He did not know if Roger drank much coffee. As an athlete he was probably encouraged to stay away from the stuff, just like Novak, but anyone would need a little boost to get through a seemingly endless day like today. Roger took a hesitant sip and came away with an approving smile. Novak smiled back, thinking that he should text Ana later thanking her for teaching him about fancy coffee.    
  
Their visit was cut short by the announcement that the rehearsal would be starting again soon. Novak quickly said goodbye and hustled back toward his group, which Roger noticed did not include Ana. Just as he was wondering where she was, a hand clasped down on his shoulder. “Roger,” he heard from the familiar voice of his Russian friend. He turned around to meet Marat Safin. “What strange choice you have in lunch companions.”   
  
Roger blushed for a moment, hoping they were not being too obvious. They were trying very hard to seem at odds still, but that did not mean the act was believable. “Yeah. Not much room in here, had to share my table,” he responded casually.     
  
“He looked happy to join you,” Marat joked. “And leave you with his trash,” he added, scooping up the Serb’s wrapper.   
  
“Novak always likes to bother other players. He thinks it’s funny to annoy me,” Roger said, trying his best not to sound endeared.     
  
Roger spotted something under Novak’s coffee cup, but Marat got there first. “Looks like he left his hotel room key. I’ll go catch up with him,” he said, quickly tossing the trash and looking around through the crowd for the Serb.   
  
“No,” Roger almost shouted, trying to quickly think of an excuse for him to take it. “I’ll give it to him, his country is right by mine.”    
  
Marat shrugged and handed it over, not caring in the slightest. “Alright. Well I’ll see you later then,” he said, walking off into the crowd.   
  
Roger looked down at the key, thumbing over it. “Yeah, later,” he said thoughtfully to himself, slipping the key into his back pocket.    
  
\--------------------------------------------------------   
  
The opening ceremony was majestic. Novak was glad he had not been paying attention earlier because it was all new and amazing to him. There was something brilliant about sharing this experience with the thousands of people around him. It might seem like a lot, but considering the entire world was tuning in for this event and only they were there living it, Novak felt truly honored.   
  
He wondered if Ana was watching at home, wishing she could be here, knowing that if not for her hand she would be. Novak felt bad for his friend. The Olympics meant so much to her and they do not happen every year. The opportunity was rare and she missed out. Tennis careers were fickle enough that you never know where your career will be in four years. Mardy Fish won silver at the last Olympic Games and he is not even playing this year. You cannot predict those things, life just happens.    
  
The first countries began to make their way around the stadium. Novak saw familiar faces mixed into the crowds of athletes. He was amused that Andy Murray was playing for Great Britain. True, it was his country, but he was always very clear about being Scottish first and a Brit second. And certainly not an Englishman, every time Wimbledon rolled around Andy clarified that detail. But as he walked side by side with his brother, it seemed for once Andy was perfectly happy to be playing for Great Britain.   
  
His next surprise came when the United States team passed by. It was strange to see Sam Querrey walking amongst the veteran players. He is relatively new on tour and has not had much of a breakthrough tournament yet. It was supposed to be Andy Roddick’s spot, but he had opted not to participate. He never missed a Davis Cup match, but suddenly Roddick was too busy to take part in the greatest opportunity to represent your country in existence? It did not make sense to Novak, but Roddick has been playing longer than him. Maybe the Olympics were not as magical after the first one; though looking around Bird’s Nest Stadium Novak could not imagine this experience getting old.    
  
Finally it was their turn. Novak was more nervous than he expected. There were more people in this arena than he had ever seen in one place and they were there just to see them walk around in a circle. His tennis game was worth seeing, Novak was confident in that, but what was entertaining about a smile and a wave?   
  
And then there was Roger who was now carrying a flag that was nearly twice his size, threatening to engulf him in the waves of red fabric. There was a section in the stands that were chanting his name and Novak just barely caught the slight blush and humble smile that flashed across Roger’s face before the flag blocked his view.   
  
That was one of the things that amazed Novak most about Roger. No matter how famous he got, how successful, moments like this still affected him. Roger did not expect the throngs of fans; he did not feel entitled to the attention, he was just grateful for it all.   
  
The flag flipped again and Novak saw the intense pride in Roger’s eyes and he felt his chest swell with a similar feeling. Just as the Swiss team was rounding the corner, Roger looked back and met Novak’s gaze briefly. There was something brilliant about having an intimate moment at such a public event. Novak knew that Roger felt like they were sharing this experience too. Novak decided right then and there that this was _the_ night for them.    
  
Novak looked up at the group of Roger’s fans that had yelled out to the Swiss man as he passed. He waved and smiled at them as if they had been cheering for him. They turned to him once Roger was out of earshot and switched their chant to his name. He was amazed by how in tune the hundreds of people were, knowing that “Djokovic” was not the easiest name to chant in unison.   
  
After the Parade of Nations, the opening ceremony was a blur, Novak’s thoughts switching between the excitement of being here in this magnificent moment and thinking about what could happen later that night. He had already ordered a DVD copy of the ceremony to take home to watch with his family and keep for the memory. For now he just wanted to be lost in the moment, enjoying the experience and wondering how a kid from humble beginnings in a country constantly in turmoil made it this far, to compete in the Olympic Games.     
  
\-------------------------------------------------   
  
Roger lifted his hand to knock, but decided against it instantly. Most countries grouped their players together by sport, so it was likely that Jankovic and Tipseravic were in a nearby room and they would definitely recognize Roger if he made too much noise out in the hallway. He pulled out the key, looking over it and hoping that Novak had intended for him to use it. If not Roger could always claim he was just returning it.     
  
The hotel rooms here were not as lavish as those where the tennis players typically stayed; mainly because the trip was paid for by the countries and the better hotels in Beijing were booked by wealthy people going to watch the Olympics. They were at least small in a cozy way. The room was humid when he entered and Roger assumed that Novak must have left a window open, catching some of Beijing’s smog. It was not until he was in the bedroom that Roger heard the spray of the shower and knew the true cause of the foggy heat.   
  
Roger wandered around the room, nosily rifling through Novak’s stuff. His bags were empty, Roger noted, except for his racket bag which was fully stocked with every imaginable tennis product, and other random items like a yo-yo and a pack of playing cards. He would be sure to ask Novak about that later. His clothes were unpacked into various drawers which told Roger that his boyfriend probably was not the superstitious type. Some players felt like the gesture of unpacking was a jinx, like thinking you would be there for awhile could make you lose early. Novak did not seem the type to buy into all that nonsense.    
  
Roger liked Novak’s casual traveling style, it reminded him of earlier days when he was just happy to play in a tournament, room accommodations meant nothing to him. He would have slept in a car just to play a qualifiers round in a Grand Slam. Roger was that way for a long time, until his girlfriend introduced him to the finer things in life and he was so terribly smitten that the Swiss man did not realize until years later how materialism had taken over his life.   
  
Just as Roger settled down on the bed to wait, Novak came waltzing into the room, wearing only briefs and toweling water out of his hair aggressively. “I take it you found the key,” Novak said playfully, tugging on a t-shirt and pajama pants, hoping he would not be wearing them for much longer. The sight of Roger watching him dress with wanton eyes encumbered Novak so that even his gaze felt heavy. Roger had this gravity about him that pulled Novak toward him without any effort. As Novak moved closer he wondered if everybody felt drawn to the Swiss man in that magnetic way, or was it some power he only had over Novak.    
  
Roger watched as the Serb carefully laid down, seemingly avoiding putting pressure on his back and shoulders. It was odd only because Novak usually threw himself down on the bed, causing the rest of the bed to move with a wave-like bounce that Roger was growing accustomed to. He was concerned, but knew if he inquired further he might come across as an advantage-seeking competitor rather than a worried boyfriend. Novak created the opportunity for him.   
  
“You didn’t tell me you were a flag bearer,” he said casually enough, but the look in his eyes was the same awed one Roger had seen during the ceremony.     
  
He just shrugged. Roger was not sure why he did not mention it, either it was not _that_ big of deal to him when he found out weeks ago or it was _too_ big of deal to mention casually and trust himself not to cry from the overwhelming emotions that he felt from the honor. Novak sensed that Roger did not want to talk about it, so he changed the subject…slightly.   
  
“Good thing I noticed in rehearsal otherwise I would’ve missed you carrying that dinky little flag,” Novak teased.    
  
Roger smiled, remembering the little thing that was so awkward to hold. They wanted him to wave it around in semblance of the larger version that he would have later that evening. Roger held it, twirling it between his fingers on occasion, but felt incredibly silly waving it since the fabric was so starched it did not move.   
  
“You think my flag was dinky?” Roger asked, pretending he was insulted. “I think I liked that one better. The real one was heavy.” Roger drew him closer. “But probably not as heavy as Jankovic,” he spoke into Novak’s neck.   
  
“Probably not, she's a lot heavier than she...hey wait, you saw that?” Novak asked with a slight blush. As stupid as he thought the competition was at the time, it seemed sillier now. It was childish and Novak hated himself a little for getting involved, especially now that his shoulder muscles were tense and sore.     
  
Roger nodded, trailing a finger over Novak’s back experimentally. The Serb squirmed with discomfort and Roger raised an eyebrow at him which seemed to say his obviously stiff muscles had said it all.   
  
Novak felt a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him to lie on his stomach. Somehow the older man removed Novak’s shirt without irritating the sensitive muscles underneath. Novak was only aware of the soft kisses to his shoulder blade and the talented hands relaxing his muscles. The treatment was a bit one-sided since Roger could not reach the shoulder furthest from him without leaning on the Serb a bit, which he seemed hesitant to do. Novak was less reluctant, nudging Roger to climb onto his lower back.     
  
Roger straddled his back carefully, trying not to put his full weight down. He was grateful for the muscle relaxant tips he had picked up from trainers over the years because he could call on those skills now. He could feel the tension release under his fingers and see the pained expression leave Novak’s face. He shifted backward slightly to better reach the Serb’s mid-back muscles, continuing the massage even after the shoulder pain was gone.   
  
Novak was not sure when Roger started gently rolling against him, or when he began pushing back with equal vigor. Roger’s weight was on him now and his breath hot against Novak’s neck, lips replacing massaging hands. Roger’s cock was resting against him, hard and solid, and Novak arched his back to rub against him. His mind was racing with possibilities he never considered before and Novak was desperate to push this further. “More,” he moaned out and to his horror, Roger pulled off him almost completely.    
  
Novak’s eyes shot open and Roger’s face was there to meet him. He moved to kiss along the Serb’s jaw all the way up to his ear. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered huskily.   
  
Novak felt a shudder run through his body, like a tremor of chills rocking through him. Before he even knew what he was doing, Novak pulled Roger to face him and answered breathily. “I want you to fuck me.”   
  
Roger’s eyes widened for a moment, clearly surprised, but he was not about to tell him no. His soft brown eyes were darkened with lust, but still somehow kind and inviting. Novak stared into them as Roger stripped away the rest of his clothes, the Serb slipping out of his own briefs and pajama pants. Something about Roger’s expression made Novak feel safe, and not just for this moment; as long as Roger was with him, Novak would be okay. Knowing that, all his reservations diminished.   
  
Then suddenly Roger’s face was gone from Novak’s view and he could feel the older man reaching over him. Novak could hear the sliding of a drawer and took a moment to wonder what the hell he was doing. Roger returned with a condom and a bottle of lube, the obvious question in his eyes. Novak nodded with a slight smile. “Where’d you find that?”   
  
“Bedside table,” he answered simply. Novak looked at him skeptically, and Roger knew the Serb thought he had brought the stuff. Roger added quickly, “That’s where they were in my room too.”    
  
Roger was behind him again, his hand on the Serb’s lower back, rubbing reassuringly; his warmth is always a comfort to Novak. He heard a faint click and a moment later, there it was, Roger’s slickened finger at his entrance, waiting to push through the tight ring of muscle. Novak knew he was holding his breath as the finger invaded him, but it kept his thoughts away from the stinging sensation. That’s all it was now, a burning sort of sting and the slightly uncomfortable feeling of having something inside him.   
  
“Breathe,” Roger whispered to him when his finger was fully sheathed, noticing the Serb had stop inhaling at some point.    
  
Roger’s finger moved in a circle, gently stretching him, preparing him for another finger and then something much larger. He touched something deep inside Novak that made the Serb’s eyes roll back and his body wiggle against the digit.   
  
Novak hated that everything had to come to a screeching halt to prepare him, even if it was not as bad as he thought it would be. It was awkward, especially since he was still laying on his stomach, a pillow resting beneath his hips, propping his butt up into the air. It was not at all comfortable, and more than anything, he wanted to _see_ Roger for this. When Roger removed his fingers, satisfied with his efforts, Novak rolled onto his back.    
  
“I want to see you,” he said when Roger looked at him skeptically. Novak knew why Roger was hesitant to agree, it was supposed to be easier the other way, less painful, especially for the first time. But Novak had made his decision and Roger could only nod with sympathetic eyes, sorry for whatever pain would come.   
  
Roger swooped in for a kiss, long and meaningful, every bit of passion poured into the gesture. When he retreated back, Novak could hear the crinkling of a wrapper and then Roger’s cock ghosting over his sensitive flesh. Novak told himself he was ready, but that did not keep the nerves from overtaking him as Roger pushed forward.    
  
_God this hurts…_ was Novak’s only thought as Roger pushed into him. It was just the tip, but that did not stop the tears from welling up in his eyes or his muscles contracting against the intrusion, trying to push Roger out. Somehow the Swiss man managed to lean forward to kiss him without moving his lower region, whispering reassurances in his ear. _Relax_ , Roger was telling him and Novak fought his body’s instincts and unclenched.   
  
Roger inched in slowly, watching Novak constantly for his reactions. The pain would subside after a minute, replaced by the unusual feeling of being full, and just as he was getting used to that, Roger pushed a little more in until finally he was all the way in. He paused, waiting for Novak to adjust. The Serb did not like the slow moments, all of the waiting. Novak could see how much effort Roger was putting into not thrusting; holding back was taking all he had. Novak was familiar with the feeling, knowing what it felt like to be engulfed in tight heat but not yet having the permission to enjoy it. Novak wondered if that’s what he felt like, or was it different to be in a guy. He would ask Roger later, maybe, but for now, Novak was ready to get to the good stuff. Novak leaned up, planting a kiss on Roger’s surprised lips. It was the only message needed. Finally, they would fully be together.     
  
Roger’s thrusts were long, slow and deliberate, brushing against that bundle of nerves on nearly every stroke. There was a peaceful calmness to their movements, not needy and lust-driven like before, it was different this time, Novak noted, but he did not yet know how. Roger’s lips traced across his neck and shoulders, his hand roaming across Novak’s chest, like he wanted to be near Novak in every way.   
  
Novak’s limbs were like jelly and he grunted out in frustration, wanting to touch his cock. Roger understood his feeble attempt to raise his arm and took over, pumping Novak’s cock in rhythm with his thrusts. The sensations were too much, sending Novak into sensory overload. He was only vaguely aware of Roger’s mouth sucking desperately at his collarbone, the warm calloused hand on his cock, the other stroking through Novak’s hair while supporting Roger’s weight, and the cock thrusting into him perfectly, hitting a pleasure place he did not even know was there.     
  
The combination of it all was both breathtaking and unbearable, his nerves burning like lightening as he came in Roger’s hand. Novak held onto conscious thought long enough to see Roger’s face as his muscles clamped down on his sensitive flesh, tearing his orgasm from him in a series of breathy gasps.   
  
Roger collapsed onto him and for the first time Novak noticed his slightly larger frame. Novak is a little taller, maybe an inch or two, but Roger is not built quite as leanly as Novak. It was an odd thing to notice, but when your lover is pressed heavily against your already heaving chest, it kind of matters. Roger regained control over his body quickly, obviously in better shape than Novak, and slid out of him gingerly. He rolled right off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom.     
  
Novak’s eyes were growing heavy and he wished Roger would hurry up because he did not want to fall asleep alone. His mind was strangely alert, waiting to analyze the night’s events. Of all the things Novak did not think could get better, sex topped the list, but his post-coital brain was telling him it just did. Like everything else, sex was different with Roger. _We had sex_ kept running through his head, only it felt like much more than that. Sex is what he did with random girls from the clubs, his former girlfriends, anyone he pleased really. This was different, and Novak had a feeling it had nothing to do with being gay. He hated the thought as it emerged, but it was firmly planted in his mind, despite the dorky cheesiness. _Making love. That’s what it felt like._ Novak had never quite understood why anyone would describe fucking that way, try to make it something that it is not, but now his tired brain was making connections and reaching a new level of understanding.   
  
The Swiss man returned with a damp towel, wiping off Novak’s stomach and tossing it across the room into a hamper with ease. Roger climbed on the bed and guided them under the covers, pulling Novak close and kissing him sweetly on the forehead, the gesture saying everything. He felt the difference too.    
  
\---------------------------------------------------------   
  
Roger was packing up his room, preparing to leave Beijing. He was in a hurry because the Medal ceremony had run long. Mirka was helping him, throwing clothes into suitcases, promising she would sort it out later before they got too wrinkled. Roger was lethargic in comparison, grabbing an item here, placing it nicely there. His mind was still on the ceremony, standing on the platform with Stan, Novak just a couple people over to his right. They both medaled, which made this tournament that much more special.     
  
It was not long before Mirka announced he was all packed and sent a bellboy down with his bags. They were in the car traveling in peaceful silence. Roger looking out the window at the odd infrastructure of the city, Mirka typing on her phone.   
  
“Damn it,” she said suddenly, dropping her phone harshly into her purse. “Died on me mid-email,” she explained, both to Roger and the limo driver who had rolled down the window to check on them.    
  
“Can I borrow yours? It is kind of important,” Mirka asked sweetly. Roger shrugged, making no move to grab it off the seat. She took that as a yes.   
  
“Now how do you find the internet on here? It’s so different from mine. Oh there it is,” Mirka narrated her actions. Roger really wished she would not do that. “I can’t figure out how to search on here. It should be in your history, right babe?”    
  
Roger realized she was talking to him. A word jumped out at him from her ramblings, _history_ , and Roger remembered that he did not clear it before. He did not think she would ever use his phone. He heard the gasp to his side and looked over hesitantly, pretending that he did not already know the problem.   
  
“What’s this?” she asked with a panicked expression, holding it up for him to see. “Tips for gay men?”   
  
Roger thought fast. “Oh is that what he was looking up?”    
  
“Who?” Mirka asked, relief already tingeing her features.   
  
“Stan. He asked to borrow my phone before the final. I thought he was looking up some tennis thing that he was too afraid to ask me. Weird, that seems like something he should’ve checked out privately,” Roger said, trying to hide his nerves and hoping his story was not too elaborate.     
  
“Oh,” Mirka said softly, the hysteria drifting away. “Yeah. Strange timing too, right before a match. Maybe he was going to put the moves on you afterward.”   
  
It was a joke, Roger knew that, but this was the closest they had come to talking about his other relationship and the thought alone made him nervous. Roger was going to respond, but she was already typing away on the email page, not knowing how close she came to his precious secret.   
  



	15. Wimbledon

Novak’s Wimbledon loss came earlier than expected. He knew his chances of winning were slim, but going out in the second round to an old timer like Marat Safin was frustrating. Novak was supposed to win that match, at least it was predicted by journalists and tennis “experts” that he would be the victor. Novak was not sure why they had so much confidence in him. Just months ago these same people thought he would certainly lose to barely-in-the-top-40 Tsonga in a Grand Slam final. Perhaps he deserved a bit more confidence then, but this was different. Novak never claimed to be any good on grass, or clay for that matter. His game was built for hard courts, and until he figured out how to adapt to the other surfaces these matches were torture, despite the honor of playing here.  
   
The press conference was finished. Novak had showered and cleaned out his locker. He had done everything necessary, and yet he was dragging his feet, not wanting to leave the stadium. Novak could find reasons to stick around for a couple days after he lost, but a week and a half might be a stretch. His coaches would want to practice, and his family would expect a visit. He could only claim to be sightseeing for so long. But Novak was sure Roger would be here until the end, Wimbledon practically belonged to him, and if Novak wanted to see his boyfriend he would have to wait until the tournament was over.  
   
“Hey mate,” Murray greeted from behind him, clasping a hand down on his shoulder. “I heard about your match.”  
   
Novak offered him a weak smile. “It happens,” he shrugged, dismissing the subject. Novak did not care enough to whine about losing, or about how Safin was unnecessarily rude to him afterward. _Even though he’s fucking number 75 in the world. Just because he got lucky today doesn’t give him the right to be such a prick._    
   
“Where are you off to now?” Murray asked.  
   
“Don’t know. Maybe I’ll stick around London for a bit. I’m in no hurry to get home,” Novak said, scooping up his bag and making to leave.  
   
“I got a new video game. You should come by my flat and check it out later,” Andy suggested amicably.  
   
“Weren’t you supposed to be cutting back on video games?” Novak chided playfully. He certainly was not going to make Andy adhere to his promise. That was Brad Gilbert's problem.  
   
“That was computer games. This is for my Playstation. You can stay over and play games for a couple days,” Andy suggested, as if all of Britain were not counting on him to win their home tournament.  
   
“Okay,” Novak agreed, wondering how his friend had time to play games so frequently, but glad to have a reason to stick around for a couple more days. He wanted to at least be in London when Roger won.  
   
\-----------------------------------------  
   
“So what’ve you been up to the last few months?” Murray asked as they settled down at a table in the player’s lounge, waiting for their drinks. Novak had come to the stadium with his friend to warm him up for his quarterfinals match against Nadal. It was a bit strange having their roles reversed, Novak usually being the more successful of the two, Murray playing the supportive friend.  
   
“Just tennis. That’s all I do,” Novak replied simply. He had a couple photo shoots coming up in the next few months, but Novak knew how much Andy hated being photographed and decided not to mention it. Andy always thought his hair looked a bit too wild, or he was making a funny face, and then there was all the make-up… It was Jamie who was considered the more attractive Murray brother, despite Andy’s greater talent and success. Andy would never admit it, but sharing the spotlight with his brother was an area of insecurity for him. In the rare moments when Andy actually acknowledges these feelings, Novak understands what it is like to be the younger brother, which never fails to make him be nicer to Marko and Djordje.  
   
“Yeah, training is a bit of a time-suck. Do you still see Ana a lot?” Andy asked in a slightly aggressive tone, like he was calling Novak out on having a new best friend.  
   
“Sometimes. She’s always with Verdasco and his friends. Not much time for old friends I guess,” Novak answered civilly, holding back the “none of your business” comment he wanted to throw at his friend. Andy had other friends besides him; his team was like a second family. There was no reason for him to get snippy with Novak, at least not over time spent with Ana.  
   
“Those Spaniards are a weird bunch. They’re a bit too friendly for my taste,” Andy said with a chuckle. Novak understood him completely and wanted to smack his friend over the head for being so ignorant and close-minded. It was not long ago that Roger and he were making similar jokes, but they lacked the mean-spirited tone of Andy’s jab. Novak was not exactly fond of the Spaniards as a whole, but he would not fault them for being a bit too touchy-feely with each other on occasion. Novak thought of what Murray might say if he knew how friendly Novak had gotten with Roger lately. Would they be part of that “weird bunch” that Andy laughed at?  
   
“Two lemonades for Murray,” the bartender announced over the murmured voices of the room. Novak went to fetch the drinks, trying not to be mad at Andy, especially since his friend was buying their drinks. It seems they close your tab at the lounge once you’ve been eliminated from the tournament for over a week.  
   
“And tea for Federer,” the man announced, placing a kettle, two ceramic cups and matching saucers on the counter. Novak fought the urge to take a look around the room for his boyfriend. Instead, he fiddled with the change in his pocket, dumping it slowly into the tip jar and waiting for Roger to join him at the bar. To his great surprise, a pretty blonde woman moseyed up to his side.  
   
“Ouch, that’s hot,” she said, pulling her hand away from the kettle quickly and giving the barkeep a stern look that read ‘hey asshole, how ‘bout a warning next time?’ Amused, Novak offered to help her carry the various items to her table, almost forgetting about the name.  
   
The woman refused his help at first, but once she looked up from the saucers it was obvious that she recognized him and a wide smile spread over her features. “Thanks so much, it’s just over there,” she said, pointing to a more secluded part of the room. Novak smiled and happily abandoned his own drinks to help with hers.  
   
“Look who I found,” the woman announced in a sing-song voice as they walked up to the table, Roger glancing up from his phone briefly. It took him a moment to catch on and do a double-take, his gaze snapping back up from phone to look over Novak, a surprised smile on his lips. Roger looked around their part of the room hesitantly before deciding it was safe to invite Nole to sit with them.  
   
Novak was still a bit confused as to whom this woman was, but he slid into the booth beside Roger nonetheless. His boyfriend was giving the woman a disapproving look. “You said I could meet him,” she defended and Roger relented.  
   
Roger leaned closer to Novak and wrapped a sly hand around his waist; just out of sight from the lounge’s other patrons. “Nole,” Roger started uncertainly, “this is my sister, Diana.”  
   
Novak smiled brightly, reassuring the Swiss man. He understood why Roger was nervous; technically Novak was meeting his family, which was usually a major milestone in relationships. Novak was truly delighted to make her acquaintance, not only because Roger said she liked his tennis, but because she was one of the few people who knew about them and was apparently quite supportive.  
   
“Nice to meet you,” Novak said politely. He hated himself a little for being so awkward in situations like this, the result of too many hours in his youth spent alone on tennis courts and not socializing, but Diana did not seem to mind. “I’ve heard so much about you.”  
   
Diana looked at her brother approvingly, like having the good sense to mention her to others was impressive. “Well, I’m sure I know more about you. Not only has my _smitten_ brother filled me in on how this,” she gestured between them, “came to be, but I’ve also read your Wikipedia page.”  
   
Novak quickly decided he liked her sense of humor. Diana did not really tell jokes, at least not the type with elaborate punch lines, but most of the things she said were humorous in a subtle way that just made her likable.  
   
“Ahem,” came a loud voice in the distance. Novak’s back was to the noise so he ignored it, but he soon found the voice was trying to get his attention.  
   
“The bartender wants you to go get your order,” Diana told him since she could see the man from her side of the booth. She waved to the man with an expression that clearly said, ‘okay we get it.’ Novak smirked, appreciating how she could communicate so well without saying a word.  
   
“Oh, I guess I should be going then. Murray is probably wondering where I went,” Novak said, forcing himself to move. He had stuck around in London all week hoping to see Roger and it turns out he only gets a lousy five minutes?  _Actually it was a kind of wonderful five minutes,_ Novak corrected.  
   
“Well, it was nice to meet you Novak. I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” Diana said with a sly smile, and Novak looked at Roger quickly, wondering if he should be concerned.  
   
“Will you be in town for awhile?” Roger asked hopefully.  
   
“Yeah, I’m staying with Murray until the end of the week,” Novak said, realizing he probably should not have mentioned his Scottish friend. Roger seemed to back away from whatever he was going to say and Novak wondered if he should have asked Roger if it was alright for him to stay with Murray, even though he was sleeping in the guest room. Novak did not know the rules on this sort of thing, but hoped he did not blow his chance.  
   
“Okay,” Roger replied vaguely, not giving anything away. The barkeep cleared his throat again and Novak left, wishing he had just a few more minutes so they did not have to part on such awkwardness, with him literally being pulled away.  
  
“Thank you,” Novak said as he retrieved the drinks, his tone not at all one of gratitude.  
   
Murray accosted him the moment he sat down. “Who was that girl you wandered off with?”  
   
“Oh, her. That was Federer’s sister. Apparently she’s a fan of mine and was desperate to meet me,” Novak said in a joking dramatic tone. He did not like the way it sounded, like he was making fun of them, but for the sake of keeping his cover, Novak let it go.  
   
“ _Damn_. Who knew he had a hot sister?” Murray said, straining to look around the corner where she was sitting.  
   
“Yeah,” Novak agreed absentmindedly. He kept telling himself that when Roger won, he would surely get a phone call, or at least be invited over for a night cap. If he was really lucky, Novak might be invited to the celebration party. Maybe that is what Diana meant by she’d see him soon…  
   
\------------------------------------------  
   
Novak was more shocked than anybody when Roger lost. He’d seen it happen before, even been the cause of a couple losses, but never here. If there is one definite thing about this era of tennis it is that Roger Federer is unbeatable at Wimbledon, and yet, he just lost.  
   
Novak was watching from the comforts of the hotel bar, not wanting Andy to catch him obsessively watching a match that should mean nothing to him. The coverage was about a quarter of an hour behind so the television station could edit out any streakers or glitches before the broadcast, but Novak felt the moment it happened. The score on the screen read six-all in the fifth, and since it was the final set they weren’t playing a tie-breaker, but Novak just knew. He had this sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, like something in the world had gone terribly wrong. For the first time that evening, Novak ordered a real drink, needing something to calm his nerves.  
   
“Hey there,” Novak heard a woman’s voice behind him. He did not turn immediately, figuring it was just some woman trying to hit on him. He definitely was not in the mood for that. She spoke again. “Oh not you too. I just left Roger-downer in his room to ‘sleep it off. ’ And by that I mean cry like a baby into his monogrammed pillow.”  
   
Novak smiled, despite his bad mood, turning to face Diana. “That bad?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. Just the thought of Roger hurting like that made his stomach twist painfully.   
   
“He’s being horribly unpleasant,” Diana answered and Novak knew she was experiencing what he termed ‘the disconnect.’ It was hard for a normal person to imagine what it felt like to lose an important match. It was devastating for a tennis player, especially once they’ve tasted victory, but to everyone else, it is just a game. “He actually yelled at Mirka, kicked her out of his room and told her never to come in without asking again. Definitely the highlight of my week,” Diana admitted amusedly. “Well, maybe tied with meeting you,” she added, ruffling his hair in a sisterly way that reminded him of Ana.  
   
“So he’s not really up to seeing anyone right now?” Novak asked carefully, trying to hide his disappointment. He did not want Roger to be alone in a moment like this, Novak could only imagine what he was feeling, but he did not know if he was the right person to be with him. Even if Novak did not go to Roger’s room, he’d already decided to stick around the hotel until he could see him, even just in passing. It’s not like he could sleep knowing Roger was hurting so much.   
   
“I think he just doesn’t want to see her. Not exactly uplifting, is she?” Diana asked and Novak did not dare answer. He may not like Mirka much, but he knew enough to fear her, especially if she ever found out he was dating her boyfriend. “I’m sure he’d like to see you,” she said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. Novak nodded, but did not entirely believe her. “Listen, you get what he’s going through, right? You’ve lost epic matches before.”  
   
“Never on this scale though,” Novak admitted. “This is _his_ tournament, has been for years. I can’t even imagine…”  
   
“Maybe not. But just being there counts for something, right?” Diana said, sliding some money across the counter to the bartender for her drink and setting a keycard by Novak's hand. The bartender was looking from the key to him, obviously assuming she was making a pass at him. Novak wanted to laugh at the man’s stupidity, but was thankful the bartender had not been listening in on their conversation.  
   
Novak called Andy as soon as he left the bar, warning his friend that he likely would not be returning to the flat that night.  
   
“I thought you went for a walk? You better not have gone clubbing without me Nole,” Andy teased.  
   
“I _did_ go for a walk. And then I stopped at a bar…” Novak trailed off, wondering where to go from there. He already felt bad about lying to his best friend, how much more could he get away with?  
   
“You just went into a pub and found a girl to take home? How come things like that always happen to you mate? Oh well, see you tomorrow then,” Murray said. Novak just let him fill in the gaps; it made him feel less guilty, especially considering how easily the lies have been slipping off his tongue to Murray these last few months. He knew Andy deserved better from someone he considered to be a close friend, but Novak did not have much of a choice.  
   
\---------------------------------------------------------  
   
Roger had been lying in bed for nearly an hour, his feelings alternating between shame and despair, crying through both. He always was a crying man. The good, the bad, and the devastating, Roger always had tears to shed. But right now, his tears were draining him; he could not even muster up the strength to drink away his pain. His skin was tender from the scalding shower he forced himself into, hoping he could scrub away the awful stench of defeat. His muscles ached underneath the sensitive skin from the four hour final and the two weeks of matches before it. So he just lay there, wallowing in his pain.  
   
Roger felt like he’d lost an old friend, one that had been his constant companion for many years and was suddenly ripped away from him. No matter what happened during the year, Roger always had Wimbledon to count on. Now he had nothing. He had been Wimbledon’s greatest champion for so long; Roger did not even know who he was without the British title. Roger was exhausted, but knew sleep was far away. There is something pathetic about crying yourself to sleep and Roger was desperate to avoid it, otherwise he might lose the last shred of dignity he had left. So he decided to stay awake until he did not feel like crying anymore.  
   
The worst part was, Roger had only thought of his own personal distress, he had yet to consider the backlash of tennis fans everywhere. No longer could he be considered among the greatest tennis players of all time. Now that Nadal had dethroned Roger on his own turf, he has something to prove. Roger dreaded the headlines that would appear in the next few days, he has never been able to deal with criticism all that well.  
   
Roger heard the beep of the keypad and the opening of the door that followed. Anger swelled in him as he prepared for another confrontation with Mirka. He was shocked out of his rage by the male figure that appeared in the doorway, shadowed by the limited lighting of the room. It was clear that Novak did not know what to do with Roger in such a state, his expression read of uncertainty, but his presence alone banished some of Roger's self-loathing.  
   
The look in Novak’s eyes was more serious than Roger had ever seen, and he knew then that Novak understood the severity of the situation, understood his pain. There were no jokes on his tongue, nor words of wisdom this time, they both knew there were no words to make this right.  
   
Novak moved around the bed and disappeared from Roger’s view as he stared intently at the sliver of light peeking through the bathroom door and hugging a pillow with a strangulating grip. There was rustling behind him, but Roger did not turn to face his boyfriend. He heard a belt buckle fall against the ground and assumed Novak was undressing, or at least shedding his jeans. Roger was not sure what to think, surely Novak knew he would not be up for anything tonight, but that did not keep him from flinching when the bed dipped down behind him and a warm hand covered his shoulder.  
   
Roger did not turn, or acknowledge the Serb’s presence in any way. He could not face Novak like this, with puffy red eyes and tear streaks down his face from the constant flow of tears that had been running constantly since he left the stadium. With one soft click the room was flooded with darkness; the only source of dim lighting to the room had been the bedside lamp on Novak’s side. The dark felt safe, like a barrier between him and all his problems. Roger knew it would be much more threatening if he were alone, but for now it was a positive force, saving him the trouble of being embarrassed. Novak climbed under the covers that were shielding Roger from the world and huddled up close behind him.  
   
“I’ll stay if you want me to,” Novak whispered to him and Roger managed a weak nod in response, hoping the movement would not be lost in the darkness, he did not trust his voice right now.  
   
Novak’s heat was tempting, like a comforting blanket after a day out in the cold. Roger rolled over quite suddenly and hugged the Serb tightly around the chest, grateful the darkness drowned out the sight of him crying. Novak must have felt the hot tears soaking through his t-shirt, but he never loosened his grip on the Swiss man. Novak’s hand traced over his back in that calmingly familiar way and for the first time since he lost, Roger felt okay.  
   
\----------------------------------------------------------  
   
Diana brought bagels and coffee for them the next morning, which was actually more like noon. She asked how he felt the morning after the worst day of his life and Roger was surprised to find himself inwardly making the argument that it hadn’t been _that_ bad. Roger no longer felt devastated, and knew that somehow he would recover his career. He could not deny still feeling horribly disappointed and majorly angry at himself, but considering the situation, those emotions seemed pretty reasonable. Diana wore a knowing look that reminded Roger of their younger days when, as the oldest, she always knew something he did not know. Diana seemed much less surprised by his quick recovery; it was almost as if she were expecting him to be fine the next day.   
   
“Oh?” she commented curiously, asking what made the big change. Roger looked toward the bathroom door unconsciously, thinking of the Serb who was showering within. He thought of how perfect it felt waking up in Novak’s arms and noticed this was the first time they had intentionally slept together without doing anything sexual. Roger knew a new page had been turned in their relationship, like an onion slowly revealing its layers. A year ago they were merely acquaintances who occasionally shared a court. Then they were friends, good friends, but completely secretive, which was a thrill of its own. After that came the sexual tension that gradually built between them, but now, there is a feeling that Roger cannot quite describe, a new level of closeness that he could not imagine sharing with anyone else. From the moment they woke up that morning and Novak “the Djoker” showed no intention of acknowledging that just hours ago Roger was a blubbering mess sobbing into his shoulder pathetically, Roger knew there was something very special about what was going on between them.  
   
Roger had many friends in his success, always there for the celebration party or when a reporter comes asking about him. It does not take much to celebrate a winner, but for the first time in his life, Roger had been caught in a moment of weakness, arguably his greatest moment of weakness and he did not have to feel ashamed. Mirka hated seeing the softer side of him. She had all these crazy conceptions of what a man should be and crying over a match does not fit into that picture. But if Novak does not think it is immature and pathetic, then why should he?  
   
“I know he’s in there,” Diana said suddenly and only then did Roger realize he’d been staring mindlessly at the bathroom door. “I was the one that gave him the key.”  
   
“What? You made him come over here? Please tell me you did not go track him down and make him come see me.” Here Roger was thinking Novak had made some brilliantly romantic gesture out of…strong attachment, but it did not seem quite so spectacular knowing Diana forced him into it.  
   
“I didn’t _make_ him come; I just gave him the opportunity. And I didn’t have to look far for him; the kid was down in the hotel bar, practically sober and looking nearly as beaten up as you. He was just asking for an invitation,” she replied innocently, settling his nerves.  
   
Roger breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that his sister’s meddling was not terribly obvious, but happy with the results nonetheless. Diana was capable of some pretty convincing psychobabble and was quite good at tricking anyone into anything, but maybe if Novak was hanging around a hotel he’d checked out of over a week ago, he was asking for it a little. “Been in there awhile, hasn’t he?” Roger asked, nodding toward the door. The shower had been running for what must’ve been nearly an hour, but maybe his sense of time was messed up since he was being bugged about his love life.  
   
“Maybe he’s waiting for someone to join him,” Diana said with a suggestively arched brow. Roger blushed as his mind roamed to Novak in the shower, a look of surprise on his face as Roger glided in smoothly, joining him under the stream of water.  
   
Roger turned to Diana with a look that clearly said “leave now.”  
   
“Well I’ve got to get back to Jim. I left him packing up our bags and he always seems to make a mess of it,” she said casually, slowly gathering her things to leave. “For goodness sake don’t make the boy wash his own back, get in there. I can let myself out.”  
   
“Thanks,” Roger said, obviously waiting for such an answer. Diana could see the heat in his eyes as he followed his lover into the bathroom. She scurried out quickly before they could start anything, just being on the same floor when Roger was up to such business felt a bit too Freudian. No matter how much she loves her brother, and the guy he’s dating, Diana does not want to hear them fucking in the shower.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2008 U.S. Open

“Are you sure about this?” Ana asked, her anxious tone of voice showing concern as she stuffed a duffle bag with men’s clothing. “It doesn’t really seem like his cup of tea.”  
  
“Yes, I’m sure. Roger said no more rules when we see each other. Anywhere, anytime we can manage,” Novak reassured her, holding up two ties for Ana to choose between. She grabbed the end of each, bringing them up near his face to compare to his coloring. She took the patterned red tie and tossed it on the bed, leaving him with the sharp royal blue one. _Perfect_ , he thought as he watched his hands deftly tie it around his neck in the mirror.  
  
“I doubt he meant publically. What happens if Mirka doesn’t leave his side all night?”  
  
“Then this party won’t be nearly as fun as it should be. That’s why we’re planning, so he can ditch her if he wants. And it won’t exactly be public, it is a masquerade party,” Novak said as he held up various masks in the mirror, trying to decide between them.  
  
He decided on a regal looking black one that was vaguely reminiscent of Batman’s mask, only better quality since it was just for show. Looking at it, Novak chuckled to himself. “Kind of funny actually.” Ana looked at him strangely, not yet seeing the joke. “Tonight everyone else will be wearing these masks to hide. But for us, we can be more open than ever."  
  
Ana smiled at her friend, always happy to see his playful side and grateful that he found someone who brought it out in him so effortlessly. The night was full of possibilities and there was no way of knowing how things would turn out, but she was hoping for the best.  
  
\--------------------------  
  
Ana straightened her dress and prepared for the camera to turn on, ready for her first red carpet interview. She was not used to being on this end, the one asking the questions, but it did allow her to be playful with the other players, and ask questions she would not usually dare. Especially when Roger came walking down the carpet.  
  
“Welcome back to Open Access on the Tennis Channel, this is Ana Ivanovic at the Wilson Party in New York,” she said perhaps a bit too quickly from the nerves, but remembering to say all that was the hardest part. “I’m here with Roger Federer who is looking sharp as always. I have to ask, who are you wearing tonight?”  
  
“Um, the sweater and shoes are Prada, and the pants are Ralph Lauren,” Roger said, looking over his outfit carefully, not wanting to mix up the labels since he knew the designers for each brand personally.  
  
“Great. Are you excited to be in New York again? What do you look forward to most when you come here?” Ana asked excitedly. Months ago this interview might have made her terribly nervous, Roger Federer would be an intimidating guest for even the most experienced journalist, but now that she knew him personally, it was like talking to a friend.  
  
“I love New York, I’ve always felt very comfortable here and the crowd is great. I do a lot of shopping here,” Roger admitted sheepishly. Not many men would own up to shopping as much as he does, but then again, not many men dressed as nicely as him either.  
  
“And where is Mirka this evening?” Ana asked, trying to keep her voice neutral and sweet, when really she was hoping for him to say his girlfriend was not coming.  
  
“Oh, she went inside already. Mirka doesn’t like the attention,” Roger said, looking around at all the cameras and reporters surrounding them, not to mention the crowd of fans trying to push their way through the barrier to the tennis stars.  
  
“So it’s a masquerade party. Any chance you’ll show us your mask?” Ana asked slyly, knowing he would not be able to say no if she asked in front of so many people. Roger held up a fancy mask that looked like porcelain only less heavy, and in the Phantom of the Opera style. It was classy and adventurous. _Perfect for Roger_ , Ana decided.  
  
“Very nice. Is there anyone you’re looking forward to seeing in there?” Ana asked with a smirk, knowing he could not truthfully answer that question right then. Roger smiled back, letting her know that yes, he was looking forward to seeing Novak.  
  
“Just friends. It’s always nice to see the players off court at things like this. We don’t have to be rivals right now, just friends.” _Always the diplomat_ , Ana thought amusedly as Roger left her to enter the party.  
  
\--------------------------------------   
  
Hours later, Ana surprised Roger outside the restroom by shoving a duffle bag at him and pushing him into the men’s room. Novak was already in there, changing his clothes.  
  
“What’s this?” Roger asked, peeking inside the bag.  
  
“Change clothes,” Novak instructed, struggling to button his shirt quickly before someone came in. “The press knows what everyone is wearing tonight, yes? From the interviews with Ana. So the masks don’t really hide anything from them, but if we change masks and clothes…”  
  
“Then nobody will know who we are,” Roger finished excitedly, realizing the brilliance of the plan. “Whose clothes are these anyway?” Roger asked, pulling on a pair of tan corduroys that were not typically his style.  
  
“Probably Verdasco’s. Ana found them for us. She knew about the Masquerade theme weeks ago because she’s hosting.”  
  
“I was wondering why she asked me about my clothes, and wanted to see the mask. So everyone would remember," Roger commented, thoroughly impressed with Ana’s scheming.  
  
“Yeah. Smarter than she seems, eh?” Novak joked, moving to help Roger with his tie.   
  
“I already thought she was wise for her age,” Roger said, poking fun at Novak for his similarly young age. He knew Ana was smart, but never suspected she could be so sly. They were not mentioning the part of the plan where Mirka too was fooled by the disguises, but Roger was impressed that they would take on such a task. Not many people attempted to deceive the strong-willed Swiss woman, Roger included. The fact that he had made it this far without her catching on to his secret life was astounding.  
  
“Not particularly wise though. She’s my age and she’s not smarter than me,” Novak pointed out haughtily.  
  
“Of course not,” agreed Roger amusedly, not wanting to wound the Serb’s ego.   
  
They pulled on their new masks, plastic and cheap, but definitely unrecognizable from their former selves.  
  
“Hey stranger,” Roger said, pulling Novak close to him for the first time that evening and kissing him softly, a sweet little gesture that said everything.  
  
 _I’ve missed you too,_ Novak thought happily.  
  
\-----------------------------------  
  
“What the hell, Ana? Are those my clothes?” Fernando asked as Novak and Roger passed by hand in hand.  
  
“Yes,” she answered easily, unconcerned by her boyfriend’s irritation. “They’ll give the clothes back later.”  
  
“Why can’t they wear their own clothes? Doesn’t Djokovic have his own pair of three hundred dollar leather pants?” Verdasco complained.  
  
“You knew it was him?" Ana asked anxiously, suddenly concerned that her plan was not devious enough. "Do you think everyone will recognize them?”  
  
“Nobody cares. He’s not wearing _their_ clothes. They won't recognize him…or Federer,” Fernando smirked, raising an eyebrow as if to say ‘of course I figured it out.’ “I’m shocked he’d even take part in this nonsense. The way he’s got his hair fixed, he almost looks like…” Fernando’s eyes shot open in surprise.  
  
“Like Feli,” he continued, glaring at Ana. “And Novak wearing my clothes makes him look like a much scrawnier me. Tell me you did not do that on purpose,” Fernando said, looking at Ana expectantly.  
  
She shrugged. “So what if I did? It works for everybody. And Roger’s not supposed to _be_ Feliciano, just look _enough_ like him.”  
  
“Enough like him? Why does he need to look enough like Feli?” Verdasco asked, panic growing within him. His friendship with Feliciano was already rocky enough these days, a mere shadow of what it once was; they certainly did not need anyone meddling in their business.  
  
“Just enough like him to make Feliciano think you’ve replaced him,” Ana said simply with a smile that said ‘you can tell me I'm brilliant now.’  
  
“That will never work,” Fernando said, scoffing at the notion, but as one of the flashing spotlights fell on Roger and Novak, dancing provocatively and stealing occasional kisses, he caught sight of Feliciano across the room with his random model date sitting at his side, obviously bored, Fernando was filled with hope. Feliciano was glaring daggers at the pair, whom he obviously assumed included Verdasco, and if he was reading it right, Fernando saw a bit of jealousy in his fellow Spaniard’s angry expression.  
  
“You’re kind of brilliant,” Verdasco conceded, his whole mood changing as his eyes flashed between Feliciano and the dancing men.  
  
Ana followed his gaze, satisfied she had predicted Feliciano’s reaction accurately. “I figured you’d much rather see him struggling all night with the feelings he doesn’t want to have for you than fawning over his girlfriend of the moment.  
  
They shared amused smiles and settled in at a table near the bar, both perfectly content to sit back and watch the evening play out with avid curiosity.   
\----------------------------------------------------  
  
The crowd of people around them did not seem to care when Novak moved closer to his masked boyfriend, grinding against him from behind to the beat of the music, or when the strobe lights caught them kissing fervently. The party atmosphere was different since people were disguised, free and easy. Everybody there just wanted a couple hours of carefree fun before the matches began and the pressure resumed.  
  
There is a brilliant feeling that comes with a mask, Novak observed. It was freeing, like you could do anything without consequences. Novak liked that feeling and surely Roger, who was constantly being watched by the media and his overbearing manager/girlfriend, would like it too.  
  
As the night wore on they got more daring. At first it was just dancing a little closer than they usually would, then a bit of groping and the occasional kiss, but three hours into the party found them hidden in the shadows of the room, like many other couples who would prefer not to be seen, barely visible with the poor lighting that the flashing neon lights provided. Novak never knew Roger could be so adventurous, but it was the Swiss man who had pinned him against the wall, covering his exposed neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses, grinding their groins together through the layers of fabric and hands roaming over his lower back and occasionally dipping below the waistband of his pants.  
  
It was just as Roger’s fingers brushed over the cleft of his ass and dared to dip between the cheeks that Ana interrupted. “Ahem,” she cleared her throat, stepping into the shadows. Novak opened his eyes reluctantly and glowered at her from his place against the wall. There was not much more they could have done in public, they were pushing the boundaries already and were damn lucky that nobody could see this spot, but still the Serb was irritated at the interruption. Novak looked at Roger, whose eyes were glazed and focused completely on him.  
  
“What?” Novak growled at her, only then noticing Fernando standing behind Ana looking nervously around the room.  
  
“Mirka is looking for him,” she said, nodding toward Roger, but speaking to Novak. Only at the mention of his girlfriend did Roger turn around to face them.  
  
“Damn,” he said, looking around the room for Mirka. He quickly spotted her at a table with Safin and his sister, one of the few WTA players that Mirka actually talked to anymore. Roddick and Brooklyn were nearby, joining in on the conversation occasionally. Novak noticed a defeated look flash across Roger’s face and thought that for once he was considering _not_ doing the right thing and returning to his girlfriend. Novak wished more than anything they did not have to hide, that they could be together openly, that Roger would break up with Mirka and tell all those in the tennis world who would oppose to fuck off. Clearly none of that was happening tonight, but Novak knew he was lucky to have gotten this time with Roger and could not be angry when it was cut short. Their time together was always shorter than he would like anyway.  
  
“Later,” Roger said, more of a promise than a statement.  
  
Novak nodded, “You know where to find me.”  
  
Roger looked him over, one last fleeting glance to get him through the rest of the night, until they could meet again. Novak could only imagine how disheveled he looked, pants slightly stretched from dancing, shirt mostly wrinkled and slightly undone, not to mention the silly, cheap mask he wore that was made of tacky gold-colored plastic. Roger started to walk away, but got hardly a step forward before turning back for one last kiss, hard and sloppy, desperate and needy, everything Roger was feeling at the thought of leaving Novak. Ruefully, he pulled away, retrieving his clothes from Ana’s bag, and rushing off to become Roger Federer again.  
  
\----------------------------------------  
  
When Roger saw him enter the locker room, Novak was surrounded. Coaches, trainers, managers, even his practice partner, they were all hovering around their player, congratulating him for his win in the Quarterfinals. Roger too had earned a place in the Semifinals, and as fate would have it, they were to play each other in the next round.  
  
Roger went into this tournament expecting to play his young lover, but given his recent results it was not a sure thing he would make it that far. Ordinarily that would mean Roger avoiding Novak as much as possible this week, but after playing and losing so badly lately, Roger felt that spending time with Novak would not affect his game as much as he had once thought. Novak was the only good thing he had to look forward to these days.  
  
It did not seem like a good time to approach his boyfriend, so Roger continued with his post-match ritual and headed for the shower. The group shower room was still quite crowded at this point in the tournament and Roger always preferred the individual stalls. That is where he found himself, comparing how sexy Novak looked after playing tennis to his after sex look. Surprisingly, they were not all that different. His cheeks flushed from exercise, a light sheen of sweat covering his form, muscles tired from overuse, but it was his eyes Roger remembered most vividly. His lids drooped slightly from fatigue, but there was this wonderful sparkle there, a mixture of satisfaction and happiness that Roger could get lost in. He felt sated just looking into Novak’s smiling eyes.  
  
It was at this moment, when a flushed Roger was beginning to lightly stroke his cock, that the curtain moved behind him and footsteps echoed softly in the tiled room. Roger snarled out a rather snippy, “occupied” to the unknown person, annoyed at the interruption.  
  
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Novak’s voice sounded with mock disappointment. Roger turned to find him standing just inside the closed curtain, wearing only that damn sexy smirk of his as he hung his towel on the rack. “I was hoping to join you.”  
  
Roger felt excitement course through him, especially when he noticed the condom and lube in the Serb’s hands. It was clear what he wanted and Roger was more than happy to comply.  
  
“I guess we could share,” Roger said casually, drawing Novak closer to him and bringing their lips together under the heated spray. Roger could hear voices all around them, just outside the curtain, on either side of their walls. The whole room echoes and they had to be nearly silent or everyone would know what they were doing. The danger of discovery made it that much more exciting, only a curtain separated them from their oblivious peers.  
  
Roger decided to play with his boyfriend a little, knowing how difficult it would be to keep quiet. “Shh,” he whispered, lightly brushing his fingertip over Novak’s lips. Roger sucked on the pulse point of his neck, licking and nipping his way down to the collarbone. Novak writhed beside him, trying to get more contact. Roger pushed him up against the tile wall, grinding their bodies together roughly.  
  
Novak shuddered and bit his lip to keep from making noise. “Uhh,” he groaned as Roger raked his teeth across a nipple. Novak felt Roger move away suddenly and lifted his heavy lids to see Roger grinning at him.  
  
He was about to ask why when Roger dropped to his knees in front of him. Novak felt himself gasp deep down in his lungs, but tried to stifle it. “Shh,” Roger repeated, placing a finger over his own lips this time. Novak could think of much better uses for those fingers. Roger’s smile was devious, like he knew exactly what his teasing was doing to Novak and loving every moment of it.  
  
Without a moment of hesitation, Roger’s mouth closed around his cock, tongue swirling around the tip skillfully. Novak did not have to worry about making noise; he was having trouble remembering to breathe. His eyes wanted to flutter closed and enjoy the sensations, but Novak could not give up the sight in front of him. Watching his cock slip in and out of Roger’s mouth effortlessly, the Swiss man’s eyes flashing up to catch his reactions, it was intoxicating to Novak and he felt his knees threatening to buckle underneath him. But then there was Roger’s hand on his hip, steadying him against the slick wall.  
  
Novak tried his best not to thrust his hips into the heat surrounding his cock, not wanting to ruin this for Roger. He never expected Roger to _want_ to suck him, especially not in the shower at a Grand Slam tournament. For some reason the thought of Roger kneeling before him for a blow job seemed unlikely, even in fantasy form, and he could not get over the fact that it was actually happening.  
  
Roger reached his hand up and Novak knew what he was looking for. The Serb retrieved the lube from the soap dish where he had set it down. Roger settled back into a comfortable pace of stroking and licking his cock before slipping a finger into him. It did not take long for Roger to stretch him adequately with Novak distracted by his mounting orgasm. Just as Novak felt he was close to the edge, Roger pulled off completely and stood beside him, watching as Novak regained his strength and self control.  
  
Roger smirked and rolled on the condom. He could not deny Novak for _that_ long. He moved in closer, his breath on Novak’s ear and their faces barely touching. “How do you want me to take you?” Roger purred into his ear, rubbing his hands all over Novak’s body while he waited. Novak thought for a moment and turned his back to Roger, facing the tile wall and offering himself to Roger.  
  
The Swiss man always took it slow at first, not yet trusting himself entirely to make the entry painless for Novak. It was always the Serb who made them go faster and asked for it harder. Roger was becoming an expert at finding his prostate quickly. The last couple times it took him only a couple of strokes to hit Novak’s sweet spot and not long after that to push him to the brink. Novak did not last long at all; his body had been waiting for release ever since Roger stopped sucking him. Roger soon followed, nipping at his shoulder to keep from crying out.  
  
Novak wanted to slide down and take a nap right there on the floor, but Roger’s strong arms kept him grounded until his energy returned. The promise of meeting up in Roger’s room once they returned to the hotel perked him up enough to rinse off and rush to get dressed.  
  
\--------------------------------  
  
When Novak returned to his bag, Murray was sitting on the bench by his locker, staring at the closed metal door. Something about his unexpected presence made Novak nervous so he approached cautiously.  
  
“Hey, man,” he greeted, opening the locker and pulling out his clothes. Murray did not respond. “Andy,” Novak tried again, waving his hand in front of his friend’s face. The Scot’s eyes flashed up at him and Novak did not like the intensity of his gaze.  
  
“What the fuck were you doing in there?” Andy demanded.  
  
“It’s a shower,” Novak replied frankly, refusing to be intimidated by his friend's tone.  
  
“I know that you ponce. I went looking for you, I heard noises,” Murray said, not meeting his eyes.  
  
“Okay, so I tossed off in the shower. Who cares? Just don’t use that one tomorrow,” Novak said, turning to his friend with an exasperated look.  
  
“Don’t lie to me,” Andy said aggressively. “I know someone was in there with you.”  
  
Novak paused, unsure of what to say. He might be caught, but Novak was not going to drag Roger into this. He had never seen Murray in such a foul mood and was not sure what the Scot would do. His mind was reeling and Novak could not help but think that this could be the dreaded moment where he was exposed and his career ended tragically. _Like Sven._  
  
“Who was it?” Andy asked, watching the shower exit suspiciously for someone else to come out. Novak held his breath and prayed that Roger did not come out that door. _Anyone but him_ , kept repeating in his mind. A damp mop of blond curls turned the corner and when the guy moved his hair, Novak saw that it was Bobby. It was an unfortunate moment for his young hitting partner to exit the shower, his presence alone getting him caught up in all this, but Novak was grateful it was not Roger. Bobby nodded toward him in acknowledgement, then to Murray, flashing them a bright smile.  
  
“Bobby?” Andy questioned in a slightly less threatening tone. “God, he didn’t tell me either?”  
  
“Why does it matter?” Novak asked impatiently. If this is where it all came crashing down on him he would rather it happen quickly.  
  
When Andy turned to him Novak was surprised to find hurt and not anger in his eyes. “Yes, it matters. I thought we were friends and you don’t even tell me when you start fucking blokes.”  
  
Novak did not have a response, at least not one that Murray would like to hear. He was so quick to trust Ana with his precious secret, but from the very start telling Andy was out of the question. Truth be told, they were not _that_ close. They talked about casual things like tennis, the tour, video games and the women they shagged along the way. They were buddies, but for several months now, Roger has been his closest guy friend. Novak knew that he could not risk losing that connection, even if his other friendships suffered as a result. Not to mention that he had been around for too many queer jokes from Murray over the years, long before he knew to be insulted. There was no way to predict his friend’s reaction, but the consequences could certainly be destructive.  
  
“Whatever, I don’t give a fuck,” Andy said, stalking away without even looking back. Novak felt awful, but he had a feeling that Murray would not sell him out, even if their friendship was over.  
  
\-----------------------------------------  
  
Roger had wondered if there would be tension between them when they met again as competitors in the Semifinals match. Things were different, Roger had noticed that, but there was also a feeling of peace, like they belonged there, on court together. Roger also noticed the lack of animosity between them; each spectacular shot was greeted with a clap of the racket from the opponent instead of a showy “come on” fist pump from the winner. It was only the fans who seemed angry or aggressive, them and Novak’s family with their obnoxious suits.  
  
There was one moment of awkwardness that interrupted his focus in the match, but Novak quickly shut it down before he could become truly distracted. It was a limp, or really, more like Novak was walking gingerly on one of the crossovers. It was so slight and unnoticeable that surely no other player would have caught on to something so subtle. Roger was not sure if it was his predatory competitive senses that made him so aware or the fact that it was Novak and he knew the Serb well enough to know when something was bothering him. Or perhaps it was guilt because when Roger first saw him wince as he walked away from the bench, his first thought was a panic-stricken _I hope I wasn’t too rough with him yesterday._  
  
The next two games Roger was preoccupied with limiting Novak’s court movement. Instead of running him side to side, front to back until his strokes gave out, like Roger would typically do to an injured opponent, Roger’s shots fell closer to the center court. It was timid play and Roger could only imagine what his coach was thinking, but it is not like he was handing the points. The disrupted rhythm of play threw him off enough to make unforced errors. He lost both games.  
  
On the switchover Novak walked up to him, out of the chair umpire’s earshot and whispered harshly, “Don’t you fucking dare go easy on me.” Roger looked down at his leg unconsciously, his mind screaming ‘but you’re injured.’ Novak seemed to catch on to what he was thinking. “Leg cramp, not your fault,” he explained. And with that Roger’s focus returned to the match, though he lost that set, he pulled off the win in four sets.  
  
“Congratulations,” Novak said, slipping into his section of the locker room. The Serb was already showered and dressed for his presser. Roger was surprised he came to him so soon after defeat. He had assumed it would take at least a couple of days to get over. Novak seemed rather cheery for someone who just got knocked out of a Major tournament. Roger must have been looking at his boyfriend strangely or maybe his lack of response clued Novak in to what he was thinking. “Just because I won one Slam doesn’t mean I expect to win them all,” he explained. “Semis is perfectly acceptable, better than Wimbledon anyway.”  
  
Roger smiled, wondering when Novak had grown up. Or maybe he has always been better at dealing with defeat. Roger would like to think his good influence had something to do with his maturity, but considering it was Novak who had saved him from his last two after-loss meltdowns; it seemed unlikely that the Swiss man was his role model.  
  
Novak waited patiently for him as he changed into his regular clothes. There was a sense of calm peace between them as they chatted casually, waiting to be called into the press room. Novak picked up his boyfriend's Nike jacket, specially made in U.S. colors for this event, and tried it on, looking at himself in a mirror as he did his best Federer impression. Before he could take it off, the younger man was called in to face the reporters.  
  
“Wait,” Roger yelled after him as he left the locker room, well aware that Novak was still wearing _his_ jacket.  
  
“Don’t worry. It’ll be funny,” Novak said, reassuring his man that he was joking around and not irresponsibly trying to expose them.  
  
Roger waited in the hallway with his team, watching the screen and waiting for the reaction. Laughter echoed through the room as the reporters caught sight of Novak. Like all his other player impressions, Novak was spot on and even Roger had a good laugh as his boyfriend mimicked his behavior. Eventually Roger grew tired of Mirka’s “he’s making a fool of you” glare and went to retrieve his jacket, conveniently interrupting the question of what they spoke about on court when Novak pulled him aside.  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, Roger Federer,” Novak said playfully as the Swiss man entered. He quickly handed over the jacket, making sure to look intimidated and advised the crowd not to steal from the greatest tennis player ever sarcastically.  
  
When Roger was questioned later, he explained it simply. “Djokovic plays jokes. He always does. It’s funny sometimes. I’m not mad.” Roger knew the clip would be online in hours, further fueling the rumors of their intense rivalry. The public would never know that Roger handed over the garment willingly, nor that he would give Novak anything, the world even if he could manage it. They would never know that Novak wore that jacket again later that night when they made love and eventually Roger begrudgingly admitted that it looks better on the Serb.  
  
\------------------------------  
  
When Novak came in to the room, Roger was watching a playback of their match, pausing occasionally to take notes. Novak threw himself on the bed beside his lover and followed along. Roger paused the match to acknowledge him, a picture of Novak serving on screen as Roger leaned in to kiss him.  
  
“This is looking pretty stalkerish,” Novak said playfully. “Didn’t get to watch me enough earlier?”  
  
“Ha, very funny,” Roger said, rolling his eyes and shoving him lightly. “My coach wants me to find five ways I can improve my second serve before the final.”  
  
“Well as the person who most recently faced it, I say it’s fine. Just tell him that.”  
  
“Right. ‘Hey coach, my boyfriend likes my serve,’” Roger joked.  
  
“Okay so maybe you can’t say that. Just use more top spin. Switch it up with some slice out wide, especially against a lefty like Nadal.”  
  
Roger wrote that down. It may be irresponsible to be taking advice from a competitor, but Roger thought his coach was being ridiculous with this assignment anyway. Novak crawled under the covers and curled up near him. He seemed tired but was trying to stay awake.  
  
“Go ahead,” Roger said, fluffing up Novak’s pillow. “I’ll wake you up when I’m done.”  
  
Novak slept deeply for nearly an hour before he started getting restless. Roger assumed it was from the commentators saying his name frequently, but he could not turn down the volume or he would miss Brad Gilbert’s serve analysis and occasionally helpful comments.  
  
Roger was sure that Novak was awake when they talked about his overzealous family riling up the crowd. He sighed deeply into his pillow and turned to see the damage done to his reputation. They were cheering obnoxiously at Roger’s unforced error, waving signs at him as Mirka glared from Roger’s player box.  
  
“Sorry about them,” Novak said, resting his head on Roger’s shoulder. Novak's family used to be one of the things that annoyed Roger so much about the Serb; their complete lack of decorum seemed crude. He had never considered that Novak too harbored some dislike for the Djokovic clan’s antics, or at least some embarrassment over them. "They don't mean to be rude. It's just, they don't get to come to my matches very often and they wait all year for the Slams. Sometimes they just get a bit too excited."  
  
Roger shook his head to say it doesn’t matter to him, at least not enough to worry Novak. The commentators went on to say the Djokovic family had purchased a tournament to move to Serbia with Novak’s uncle as tournament director. Novak’s expression was hard to read, but Roger could tell it was not happy.  
  
“I can’t believe they did that,” Novak said in frustration. “Seriously, who buys a tournament?”  
  
Roger knew he was talking to himself, but he did not like seeing Novak stressed like this. “You don’t want the Serbia Open?” Roger asked carefully.  
  
Novak thought for a moment. “It’s just…so greedy. I would love to have a tournament in Serbia, but not with my money and my family. It looks bad, you know? Like I need my own ATP event. I know they meant well, establishing a legacy and everything, but it’s just tacky. I would’ve never given them the money if I knew where it would go.”  
  
“I’m sure they didn’t mean to embarrass you. Maybe it was just a Serbian pride thing,” Roger tried, surprised at himself for defending the crazy family.  
  
“I know. They don’t think about things like public opinion or losing the respect of peers. It’s just showboating. Beware of the noveau riche, eh?” Novak said, now sounding more amused than angry. “I should’ve expected they’d buy something extravagant with our new wealth. I just wanted them to buy a bigger house.”  
  
“I’m sure it will be fine. Plenty of players have their home-base tournament, and as long as you come into it as just a player, nobody will care. If there is no special treatment, there is nothing to talk about,” Roger explained logically. He was curious about Novak’s childhood, especially since it seems like he was not the over-privileged brat that Roger had always assumed. He sensed it was not a good time to ask, mostly because Novak looked close to napping again, but he was curious nonetheless.  
  
“You’re right, I’m sure the story will pass quickly. I expect much bigger news will be coming soon,” Novak said, cuddling up to Roger under the covers and coaxing him to put the file folders and notepad away.  
  
“Oh yeah? What news is that?” Roger asked hesitantly, wondering if this was one of Novak’s pranks.  
  
“Dethroned Champion Back on Top,” Novak said with a wry smile, predicting the headlines.  
  
Roger smiled at him, rolling them over so that he was hovering above the younger man. “On top. You mean here?”  
  
\----------------------------------------  
  
He was a champion again and never had it mattered more to Roger. For months now he had felt like a has-been loser, holding on to whatever remnants of a career he had left and trying desperately to live up to his reputation. Never had a trophy shined as brightly as it did in the morning sun, the golden light reflecting down onto Roger and Novak in bed.  
  
Roger felt more deserving of Novak’s affection now, like he needed to prove to himself that he could still be _the_ Roger Federer. Novak would never admit to being disappointed, but dating a _former_ Grand Slam champion, _former_ number one player, _former_ greatest player of all time could not be his ideal boyfriend. Today Roger proved that he is still in his prime and that his career is far from over.  
  
Roger hoped this feeling would last through the holidays. A couple weeks away from tennis was always a struggle for Roger, but he had promised his family a long time ago that he would never miss a Christmas with them, no matter how famous he got. But Roger had more than tennis to miss this year. Roger wondered if he would be able to share in their joy when he felt like a part of his family was missing. The last few visits to Switzerland had been incredibly awkward, pretending he was still in love with Mirka and lying to both their families. If only the world was simpler and he could just come out to them with no consequences.  
  
The light shifted and Roger’s gaze was drawn back to the trophy. It was a good way to end an unsuccessful season, winning a Grand Slam. Nadal was still ahead in the rankings and had a much more impressive record, but the tennis critics could not say that 2008 was his “off year.” Nobody wins a Grand Slam on an off year. As frustrating as it was to lose so many matches, Roger needed this wake up call. For a couple years now Nadal had been right on his tail, but he was still in control. Gone were the days of straight set finals over Roddick, Hewitt and Safin. The young guys soaring up through the ranks were all full of potential. Nadal was leading the pack for now, but Roger had a feeling Novak would soon overtake him.  
  
Roger looked at the younger man whose head rested peacefully on his chest. He wondered about Novak’s future. At twenty-one Novak was a Slam champion, a year younger than Roger was when he won his first. In a couple of years they could be saying Novak is the greatest tennis player of all time. Strangely enough, Roger would not mind handing over the title, as long as it was Novak who dethroned him.  
  
Truthfully, Roger was just glad Novak could see him as the glorified champion again. Recently, he had been plagued with the thought that Novak came along too late in his career, that the younger man would only be able to watch his downfall. There was something brilliant about having someone there to pick up the pieces when you fall apart, someone who knows what you need without ever being told, but Roger wanted to be at his best with Novak. It had been a long time since he had someone to celebrate with, someone who was happy because he was happy and not because of what the win did for his career. Roger was sure Novak was that person. Hell, he lost to Roger no less than two days ago and he was still ecstatic when the Swiss man won. Who else is capable of that?  
  
Roger gently kissed Novak’s forehead, grateful to have the Serb in his life. If Roger had continued on his winning streak by beating Novak in the Aussie Semifinals, they may not be together now. Roger did not know how he would have made it through the year without Novak. In the last couple of months Roger felt himself coming back to life, feeling more like himself than he had in years.  
  
The sun rose further in the sky and the glare from the trophy shined on Novak’s face. He must have been half awake already, because when the light shifted over his eyes, Novak began to stir. Roger did him the favor of blocking the sunlight, which was much easier than getting out of bed to close the curtains.  
  
“Good morning,” Roger greeted, his voice husky from sleep. Novak’s smile was unguardedly sweet, as it always was first thing in the morning, before the walls of awareness came up to block out the world. Roger kissed him languidly because they had all day and he would not get to wake up like this for awhile. Roger ran his hand down Novak’s side softly, always amazed at the softness of his skin. His fingers came across an indention marring the smooth surface.  
  
“What’s that?” Roger broke away to ask. Novak shrugged and lowered the covers to take a look. There was a mark on his left hipbone in a familiar shape.  
  
“I’ve been branded!” Novak joked, running his fingers over the distinct Roger Federation logo that had transferred onto him from the embroidered covers.  
  
“I kind of like it,” Roger said as he admired Novak’s ‘branding’ with a devious smirk. “You should keep it.”  
  
“Keep it? It’s not a puppy. The mark will be gone in like a hour.”  
  
“Draw it on then,” Roger suggested, far too entertained by the idea of marking Novak as his.  
  
“Fine, give me a marker,” Novak said with mock annoyance. The Serb thought it was adorable that Roger was so giddy to claim him with such a mark, brand his skin with the same name he wore on his heart.  
  
Roger found a permanent marker in the bedside table and traced the logo on Novak’s skin. He did several layers before blowing on the wet ink to dry, all the while Novak squirming like he was getting an actual tattoo. Novak tried to wrestle the marker away from him after the sixth layer of ink, telling Roger he would not be able to go swimming for weeks.  
  
Just as their wrestling match turned into something more heated, a knock sounded on the door. “Roger? Are you in there?” Mirka’s voice came muffled through the door. Panic swept through both men as they hopped out of bed and struggled to compose themselves quickly. It was then that Roger noticed the streaks of dark ink on his chest from their playful squabble.  
  
“I’m coming,” Roger shouted, pulling on the plushy hotel bathrobe since he could not figure out which clothes Mirka had seen him wear this week. Novak had come to him just after Roger got back from celebrating with his team and their clothes were quickly discarded. Roger had not even bothered with pajamas.  
  
Roger looked around the room for a place for Novak to hide, but did not find anywhere suitable. He could not predict where Mirka would go in the room, and it would be more awkward if she found him stashed in a closet or the bathroom.  
  
“I have an idea,” Novak said as he attempted to straighten out his wrinkled shirt that had been bunched up on the floor for several hours. Roger nodded and opened the door with a forced smile, and no choice but to trust Novak completely.  
  
“What are you wearing?” Mirka asked, looking at him strangely. True, it would be weird if he just sat around all day in the robe, but first thing in the morning it was not too odd.  
  
“Oh, I was just about to get in the shower,” Roger gave the obvious answer.  
  
“Well I’ll be fast then,” Mirka said as she walked through the doorway, pausing when she caught sight of Novak sitting on the sofa. She turned to Roger in surprise, hardly acknowledging Novak at all. “What is _he_ doing here?”  
  
“Actually I was making a business proposition. I’m glad you’re here, maybe you can talk some sense into him.” Novak was aware of the slight glare Roger was sending his way, but he would not be mad if this plan saved them from Mirka's wrath.  
  
Mirka’s business hat came on instantly and she was alert and ready for the opportunity. “Alright, let’s hear it then.”  
  
“I was thinking about doing an exhibition doubles match, for charity of course. Me and Roger could play together, maybe against Roddick and Nadal. Something like that,” Novak said with all the confidence he could muster. He would feel like a total douche if he really did come to them with that suggestion.  
  
Mirka thought for a moment, and Novak wondered if she was actually considering the idea. He soon found that she was trying to figure out the best way to tell him hell no. First, she thought the idea was silly, especially because Roger already does so many exhibition matches a year. That was a fairly reasonable excuse. She went on to say that Novak was making a desperate attempt to win over Roger’s fans and force himself on Roger’s friends. Novak did not really care what she thought of his scheme, just that she accepted that was why he came over, but she did not have to be so rude about it.  
  
“Fair enough,” Novak said simply. “I’ll be going then.”  
  
Roger walked him to the door and Novak could see the amusement in his eyes. It gave Novak an uplifting feeling, like Roger was choosing _his side_ over Mirka’s. Like Roger put him first.  
  
\--------------------------------------------  
  
Novak’s joy did not last long. He opened his room to find a disgruntled Marko packing up his room.  
  
“Where the hell have you been?” Novak was alarmed by his brother’s tone. Marko never spoke to him that way.  
  
“I was out,” Novak answered defensively, not appreciating the interrogation. As Marko continued to fold his brother’s clothes and pack them in the suitcase, Novak felt guilty for not doing it himself before he left. He was almost always late back to the room after a night with Roger and packing would have saved time. “You don’t have to do that. I can pack my bag,” Novak said, taking one of his rackets out of Marko’s angry hand.  
  
“No, I do have to do it or we’ll all be fucking late for our flight,” Marko spat.  
  
“We’re not going to miss the flight,” Novak reassured him, puzzled by his brother’s mood. “What is going on? Why are you mad at me?”  
  
“You don’t think I heard you in here the other night, talking to someone. Who was it, Novak? I know you had some guy in here.”  
  
Novak laughed hollowly. “I’m allowed to have friends over, Marko.”  
  
“That late? You should’ve been preparing for your match. Maybe that’s why you lost in the semis,” the younger Serb said smartly.  
  
“I lost because I played Federer. Lack of sleep had nothing to do with it,” Novak defended, wishing that he could tell Marko the late night visitor was Roger just to prove his snarky brother wrong.  
  
“Whatever. It’s still messed up. And our parents wouldn't approve.”  
  
“Why? What do you care if Murray comes over sometimes for a beer and video games? You’re just jealous we didn’t invite you,” Novak said, knowing that Marko would not dare scold Andy’s habits.  
  
“Fine. But it wasn’t Murray. You guys aren’t even talking anymore. I haven’t seen him around in ages. _And_ if it was Andy, he would’ve invited me."  
  
“That was an example,” Novak added, wondering how Marko knew about his strained relationship with Andy and hoping the Scot had not confided anything in the younger boy. “I have other friends besides Murray and I don’t need permission to see them.”  
  
They were quiet for awhile, each packing as efficiently as time would allow. Novak felt the tension diminish slightly and hoped his brother would not be this angry at him over the holidays or he would have to escape to Monte Carlo earlier than usual. After they packed the last few items Marko spoke again.  
  
“I hope you know if it was Andy who made it big first, he wouldn’t ditch you for new friends. Andy would never do that to you,” Marko said softly, in a defeated tone.  
  
Novak had not thought about it that way, like he was moving on to more successful friends. It was not necessarily untrue. Novak’s closest friends besides Murray these days were Nadal and Federer, his fellow top players. Maybe that is part of why Andy got so angry in the locker room. Novak was cutting him out of his life and suddenly Andy felt like he did not even know his friend anymore.  
  
“I know he wouldn’t. But you don’t know what you’re talking about Marko. Just because I’ve made new friends doesn’t mean I’ll abandon the old ones,” Novak said and it occurred to him halfway through that Marko probably felt like he had ditched him as well. Before the Aussie Open, Novak would practice with him often, they would warm up together, and he would even go to his younger brother’s matches, but he had not done any of that in awhile.  
  
“Why haven’t we met you’re new friends then? Why can’t we hang out together?”  
  
“It’s not that easy, Marko.”  
  
“Yes, it is. You shouldn't hide things from your family, it's not right. If you won’t tell me who your friend is, I’ll figure it out,” Marko said, anger returning to his voice. “And then I’ll tell mom and dad,” he threatened.  
  
Marko probably wouldn’t do that, Novak knew this, but he could not take the chance. Marko might be willing to accept it was just a friend coming over to hang out, but his parents would be more suspicious of his late night visitor. The best thing to do was to cut a deal with Marko.  
  
“It’s unfortunate that you feel that way because I was going to invite Ana over for Christmas dinner. But I don’t want her coming over if all this family drama is going on,” Novak said casually. Playing on Marko’s crush on Ana was not the nicest thing to do, but it was the simplest way he was sure to have Marko under control.  
  
“She’s coming to our house?” Marko said, lighting up with possibilities.  
  
“She was, but now that you’re so determined to investigate my life I don’t think she should.”  
  
“Wait,” Marko said, considering for a moment. He seemed to decide Ana was worth it because he conceded. “I don’t care about your friend, or what you guys are always busy with. Just don’t leave Murray out so much, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Novak agreed.  
  
"And don't lie to mom and dad," he added.  
  
"Fine."  
  
"So she's coming then?" Marko asked excitedly. Novak nodded, hoping she would play along.  
  
"Yeah, she really is."  
  
"What am I going to wear?!?" was the first of many concerns Marko had, and Novak put up with every question, trying to seem just as excited. Inside he was a bundle of nerves. Three close calls in as many days was too much for him and Novak was glad he would have the holidays to figure out the new complications in his life, like how to keep Murray quiet, distract Marko, avoid Mirka, see Roger as much as possible, and somehow manage play decent tennis.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Jelena Ristic makes an appearance in this chapter, and since I couldn't find out much about her, I filled in the gaps and gave her an interesting storyline. Also, I wanted to create a place where the issue of media didn't come up, so I took some liberties with the city of Monte Carlo. This is probably very confusing right now, but hopefully I explain it well enough in the chapter, I just wanted to give ya'll a heads up. Enjoy!
> 
> Novak's dog, Pierre: http://www.tennisperspective.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/NoVak-Djokovic-Pierre.jpg

Roger was fairly depressed by the time Christmas rolled around. He had only been doing a couple hours of maintenance training each week during the break, far less tennis than he was used to these days, so most of his free time was free for Mirka to claim. Since Roger ran out of decent excuses weeks ago, he had no choice but to mindlessly go along with her errands. 

They went shopping for hours on end, caught up with old friends over lunch, and visited family, none of which got him into the holiday spirit. He had not even noticed his particularly grumpy mood these past few weeks until Mirka jokingly called him The Grinch. You know you must be in a foul mood if Mirka is in better spirits than you, Roger thought bitterly. He just hoped he would be feeling better by his parent’s annual holiday party.

The only thing keeping Roger sane was his knowing the exact reason why he was feeling so down, though he found it difficult to accept. Over the last couple months, he had been slowly disconnecting from this life, changing so he could no longer relate to the people around him. Roger felt like an actor in his own life, playing the role of his former self, or really, Mirka’s version of him. It was getting exhausting and Roger still had another week of “vacation” left to endure.

This became fairly obvious to Roger at one of the many business lunches Mirka had scheduled during the break. They were discussing business opportunities with his financial manager and Mirka kept droning on about capitalizing on the last wave of his fame with a new line of merchandise. He was shocked to hear that she was so heavily focused on his legacy, like she expected his career to be ending at any moment. Roger had come into the meeting hoping to get approval for more charity work, but Mirka shut down that idea quickly; claiming that the Roger Federer Foundation just built some courts in South Africa last year and that should be enough for a couple years.

Roger was inspired by something Novak had said about how he wished he could have spent more time with his family when he was younger. Roger too was separated from his family when he was “discovered” as a potentially successful tennis player. Roger was sent to Basel for training when he was only eight, by age ten he only saw his parents a couple times a year, keeping in touch mostly through phone calls. He went an entire year without seeing Diana once when he was in junior training.

Novak’s story was similar, except he was sent to an academy in Germany. He did not see his parents or younger brothers for two years, not until he started competing as a junior and traveling around Europe. That is why his family goes a bit crazy supporting him now, Novak explained, because they could not be there in the early years, and because his coaches had practically raised him.

That was what bothered Novak most about his family’s controversial purchase of an ATP tournament. He felt that what Serbia truly needs is a competitive junior program, not a professional event. Roger remembered his impassioned speech well, and the Serb’s words of frustration stuck with him.

“There is interest there. They watch us on TV and the kids, they just want to play, you know? But there aren’t enough courts or training programs. And there are only so many spots available in the academies of Germany and France for non-national players. That is how we should “give back to tennis.” Then we can buy a professional tournament…”

Roger knew deep-down that his relationship with Novak had something to do with the changes he was feeling, both in his life and within himself. It seemed like the closer they got, the less attached he felt to the way things were before Novak. As their relationship developed, Roger felt like he was growing with it, but instead of feeling like a whole new person, he felt like he was reverting back to a former self that got buried many years ago. He was becoming a polished up version of that man.

Family time was Roger’s only escape from the suffocating world of Mirka. He didn’t have to be on edge around his parents, and just being back in his childhood home was comforting. And then there was Diana who never failed to amuse him. She would gladly psychoanalyze why he was feeling so lost, but Roger knew she would come to a similar conclusion. He just doesn’t fit into this life anymore and nobody likes being left out for being different.

He was glad that she arrived a few days early because Diana was the only person who would stand up to Mirka, and Roger felt his girlfriend really needed to be told off. With Diana’s arrival also came the feeling of being understood, a comforting force that made Roger instantly at ease, which is probably what makes her such a great therapist. That was especially true this time considering she was one of the few people who knew about his secret life, something that was beginning to feel unreal to him after weeks away from Novak. Those nights in the hotel rooms seemed like a fantasy world.

“She’s planning something,” Diana whispered cryptically to him when they met for tea, choosing a moment when Mirka was distracted, which happened to be a heated argument with the waiter.

“She always is,” he responded lightly. Roger was only slightly concerned. A scheming Mirka is always a dangerous one. Roger hoped it was just a challenging business deal that had her planning; otherwise this holiday could get much worse very quickly.

\--------------------------------------------------

Even good-natured Ana was reduced to an eye roll as Marko asked his twentieth question since they sat down for dinner. Novak did not understand his brother’s sudden curiosity with his friend since Ana had been around their family for most of Marko’s life. True, she had grown up quite a bit in the last couple of years, but that should only convince Marko that she’s no longer on his level. The shy girl with braces might have been nice to him, but she’s a tennis star now, a paid endorsement model; Ana does not have time for teen crushes. Mama and Papa Djokovic had already tuned out their middle child, choosing instead to correct Djorde’s unbecoming table manners in such a dramatically formal way that Novak would have sworn they thought they were dining with royalty. Ana’s parents were seated more favorably by Novak’s aunt and uncle, their former neighbors when they still lived in Belgrade, far away from the eccentrics in his close family.

Novak attempted to redirect the conversation going on around him several times, mostly for Ana’s sake, but Marko was relentless. The only time he would stop his obnoxious flirting was when Novak mentioned Ana’s blossoming career or Verdasco, both subjects Marko did not feel he was allowed to have an opinion on as a much lesser player and a far less eligible suitor. To his credit, Marko recovered easily from Novak’s derailment attempts. Marko would just pause to allow Ana to respond appropriately, and then latch onto some vague detail of what she said and change the subject. If it were not so pathetic, Novak would be impressed. It’s not easy to turn Ana’s “I may go visit him in Spain next week” into a discussion on Madrid’s chances of winning the World Cup.

Marko had spent the better part of a week shopping for the perfect gift to woo Ana, finally deciding on a silk scarf that their mother helped pick out. She loved the scarf, but did not give him the kiss he was hoping for, which was probably best since they were surrounded by intrigued family members watching the drama play out. Novak waited until just before Ana left to give his present so they could retreat to the safety of his room while their families were distracted. Novak didn’t want to outshine his brother, at least not publically; especially since his gift did not take nearly as much effort to choose since Ana told him straight out what she would like a couple weeks ago.

On the plane trip back home from the US Open Novak asked how he could ever make it up to her, for everything she has done for him the last couple of months. “Well, you could start with these earrings,” she joked, pointing out a picture in the magazine she was flipping through. Novak leaned in closer to take a look at the jewelry.

“Stop it,” Ana said, shutting the magazine and tossing it aside. “After sixteen years of friendship you should know I’d do anything for you.”

Novak nodded, still trying to peek through the pages. “For free,” she added, putting the magazine away in her bag.

Novak felt the same, so he bought the earrings. He was already getting her a Christmas gift and it was not often that you could get someone exactly what they wanted and surprise them. But as great as his gift was, Ana still beat him. She knew exactly what Novak wanted for Christmas, or really who he wanted, but she couldn’t really help with that. But, she could get him the next best thing. Before Novak even understood what it was, Ana grabbed the bottle of fragrance and sprayed it, a puff of liquid surrounded them and Novak could actually smell Roger. He closed his eyes and took in the musky scent, with just a hint of vanilla that Novak had always wondered about.

“I thought so,” Ana responded happily. “Roger is too honest to put his name on something he doesn’t use.”

Novak smiled, wondering how such a brilliantly clever person could exist. Her parents were calling from downstairs; it was time for them to leave, so Novak thanked her and walked her to the door. It was not until later that he read what she wrote on the card.

“So he’ll always be with you,” she wrote in loopy cursive, and Novak hoped he always would be.

\----------------------------------------

Roger dreaded the Christmas party more and more with each passing hour as he helped his parents decorate the house and was reminded who would be there. The idea of spending the holiday with distant family members and random friends of his parents was not exactly appealing with the way he was feeling. It was only at functions like this that Roger was truly aware of his fame. Lingering stares and nervous conversation were all he had to look forward to, that and an evening of playing the perfect couple with Mirka.

At least I have Diana, he reasoned, her snide comments always cheered him up and Jim’s cluelessness about Swiss customs was always good for a laugh. It reminded him of when he first met Andy Roddick in juniors, how eccentrically strange he had seemed compared to the mild-mannered Swiss players of Roger’s childhood. He soon learned that Americans were just different. Not bad, just different.

Diana came over around noon to help their mother cook while Roger repaired a place on the roof that leaked into the house when snow melted; complaining the entire time that someone whose body is less valuable should be the one hammering away twenty feet in the air on a wobbly latter. His sister whispered to him in passing that she had a fantastic gift for him but refused to give any details. Roger could not recall what he and Mirka had gotten Diana, knowing Mirka, it was probably the ugliest necklace in the Vavrinec jewelry store, but Roger hoped she was mature enough to get his sister something nice.

Mirka joined them an hour before the party began, bringing with her the recipe for her mother’s holiday eggnog. She also brought their overnight bags so they wouldn’t have to drive through the snow at night. Roger was unnerved at how clingy she seemed considering they had only been apart for a couple hours. He was dreading another evening as her arm candy. But Mirka surprised him by being friendly and attentive to his parent’s guests, even replenishing his drink for him throughout the night. Roger did not know why she was playing housewife-hostess, but it certainly caught Diana’s attention.

“Someone is trying to get you drunk,” Diana said playfully as Mirka fetched him another cup.

“It’s just eggnog. There is like one shot of whiskey in the whole punch bowl,” Roger replied, knowing that Mirka was not all that fond of alcohol or the improper behavior it created.

“Then it must be a guilty conscience. Has she done anything especially malicious lately?” Diana asked excitedly, ignoring Jim who rolled his eyes in disapproval when he looked toward Roger, but smirked amusedly behind his wife’s back.

“Not that I know of,” Roger responded, knowing he shouldn’t answer, it only encourages her, but Mirka has been a constant annoyance to him for weeks now. It didn’t hurt to laugh a bit at her expense, did it?

“I’ll investigate,” Diana announced as Mirka approached with his drink. He did not hear from his sister again for at least an hour, and Mirka seemed content to just let him sit fireside with Jim who tried, as always, to talk about tennis. Roger respected the effort, knowing that Americans are not necessarily as tennis-aware as the European countries. Football was their main sport, that and baseball, basketball, even golf, all came before tennis. Roger did not mind his questions, like “what was your best hit this year?” or “how many net-hits did you get?” The genuine interest was there, the tennis knowledge was just lacking. Roger made a mental note to invite Jim to more matches, maybe have him sit next to Mirka or one of his coaches to learn more about the game.

Diana pulled him aside as their parents said goodbye to a couple of guests who were heading out early. “I think she stole some pills,” Diana revealed confidently.

“What? From who?” Roger replied, already assuming he was being updated on why Mirka’s conscience was weighing on her.

“Dad is missing a pill bottle. Mom asked me if I saw them around somewhere,” Diana said conspiratorially.

Roger sighed. “Di, Dad is old. Old people lose things.”

“I know,” Diana admitted, but she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “But that’s all I got. I guess if someone turns up poisoned to death, we’ll have a suspect.”

Roger rolled his eyes knowing that Diana was just grasping at straws. Mirka probably was not up to anything at all, maybe she just wanted to be friendly. “What kind of pills were they? I don’t think dad is on any killer pills.”

“I don’t know. Mom wouldn’t say. Probably just high blood pressure pills or something,” she offered, shrugging the subject away and admitting defeat when Roger pointed out how ridiculous it was to think of Mirka selling drugs or using them to poison people.

Gift time rolled around soon enough and Roger wished Mirka would have given him a recap before they were handed out because he ended up being just as surprised as the recipient when the gifts were unwrapped. Roger was not surprised to see a gaudy gold necklace with large, oddly-colored stones given to Diana, nor the fine gold watch to Jim. Mirka always liked him just fine, despite his wife’s antics. Diana gave Mirka a pair of designer sunglasses, which Roger thought was quite nice until Mirka tried them on and she looked like a bug with a disproportionate face.

“And for you,” Diana said, handing him an envelope with a wide grin.

Roger was terribly confused. An envelope like this could only have a rather tall Christmas card or money. Neither seemed all that fantastic. A card was too simple and it seems a little silly to give someone money when he is pretty much set for life. Whatever it was, Mirka was leaning in close to get the first look.

“Plane tickets?” she announced, grabbing them from him to take a look.

“To Monte Carlo, home of casinos and near-perfect weather,” Diana said in a dramatic game show announcer voice telling the contestant what they had just won.

Mirka frowned when she saw Diana had written her own name on the extra ticket, claiming a sibling trip was just what she needed since Jim would soon return to the U.S. for a couple weeks to check on his businesses. Roger was not exactly sure what it was that Jim did, but whatever it was he is fairly successful at it. He ran most everything from his office in Switzerland, his large staff following his orders in the States. Jim had to fly out a couple times a year to check on things, but other than that he stayed in Switzerland. Diana had talked a few times about moving to America, claiming there are not enough potential clients in their area in Switzerland. Apparently America has more emotionally damaged people in need of therapy and something about that seemed to excite her.

“A whole week? That doesn’t fit into the schedule,” Mirka said defiantly.

“Sure, it does. We leave tomorrow and get back just in time for Roger to meet you in Dubai for pre-Australian Open training.”

Mirka couldn’t really dispute that and walked away in a huff, claiming she had business meetings and appearances to rearrange. Roger did not remember hearing about these obligations before, but Mirka didn’t always give him much of a warning. He had already worked out his clothes with Nike, gone over his game plan with his coaches, reserved his usual suite and sent his rackets off to be strung. As far as Roger could tell, he was all set for the Aussie Open.

“Why Monaco?” Roger asked suspiciously, wondering if his sister knew who lived in Monte Carlo that would interest him.

“I know the cutest travel guide who lives there,” she said slyly. Oh yeah, she knows.

\----------------------------------

“Tell me again how crazy this plan is?” Mirka asked, her voice shakier than normal.

“It’s insane,” the man stated automatically. “No Merry Christmas? Mir, you do realize this is a holiday, right?”

“Merry Christmas,” she said in a forced cheery voice. “Now tell me it’s crazy again.”

“That’s better. Merry Christmas to you too babe. Now what were you saying about a plan?”

“His sister is taking him away on some holiday. To Monaco of all places! Why the fuck would they want to go there?!”

“Well it is nice at this time of year. Actually it’s pretty nice year round. 300 days of sunshine…”

“You sound like a damn travel brochure. They’re going there because of the legal privacy. The perfect place to meet up with your whore on the side,” Mirka spat scathingly.

“Do you honestly believe his sister would support that?”

“I think she would do anything to break us up. Not that it would be too hard these days. I swear he wouldn’t even talk to me if I didn’t make him. It wouldn’t be that hard to steal him away. I have to do something to keep him.”

“No matter what he’s been doing, this is wrong, Mirka. If he ever found out, I don’t think he could forgive you.”

“I can’t let him get her pregnant first. And it’s the only way to make sure he’ll stay with me,” Mirka said, trying to keep the tears out of her voice.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he said, sounding almost amused. Mirka wanted to smack him on the head or at least hang up dramatically, but he’s all she has right now and she didn’t want to be alone.

“Why’s that?” she demanded.

“I just don’t think he’s seeing some girl,” the man responded vaguely.

“I know he is cheating, we’ve already established that. I just don’t know who she is,” Mirka said, the subject had clearly crossed her mind many times.

“I’m not saying he isn’t cheating, I just don’t think it’s…never mind,” he cut himself off, not sure if he should tell her what he suspected. “Just don’t do something stupid, Mirka. Merry Christmas.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

With only one glass of champagne, Roger was already feeling buzzed. Maybe it’s just the holiday spirit catching up with me, he thought cheerfully. Or maybe I’ve finally got something to be happy about. Roger usually had a higher drinking tolerance than one drink, but he was feeling unusually tipsy. He decided it was just the prospect of seeing Novak tomorrow that had him excited.

Mirka kept the drinks coming and Roger kept telling himself that he really loved eggnog, so much so that he decided he should drink it daily since it put him in the best mood ever. If I drink it always, I’ll never be unhappy again, he reasoned somewhat logically, and at the time it sounded about right.

Despite the alcohol coursing through his system, Roger was able to text Novak, letting his fingers remember the familiar sequence of buttons. “You didn’t tell me I see you soon!”

“That’s how surprises usually work :)” 

“And when I tell you I miss you, you couldn’t have told me?”

“Maybe I just liked hearing you say that. And it wasn’t my surprise to reveal.”

“Well I do miss you. But I’ll be all better tomorrow.”

“You should be careful what you type on that thing. You never know who could come across the messages,” a familiar voice spoke next to him. Roger looked up to find the friendly smile of Tiger Woods.

“Don’t I know it,” he said to himself, thinking of when Mirka found the webpage on his phone. Roger smiled, happy to see his friend. “When did you get here?”

“Just in time for dessert. We just flew over from Sweden. The kids wanted to be at home for Christmas morning,” Tiger said, nodding toward his children, asleep on a sofa.

“I think they’ve got the right idea,” Roger said, slumping into the cushions, feeling quite sleepy himself.

“Or maybe you do. I heard you’re headed for Monte Carlo tomorrow. Sans Mirka, how’d you swing that?” Tiger asked, his suspiciously curious tone going unnoticed by his drunken friend.

“Diana, of course. It was her idea. I’m just a pawn in their games,” Roger said dopily, not sounding all that perturbed by their passive-aggressive rivalry.

“Well enjoy it, man. Breaks are hard to come by in our business.”

“Right you are,” Mirka agreed, offering Roger another mug of eggnog as she whispered quietly to Tiger. The man rolled his eyes slightly, but returned to his wife who was attempting to wake the children to leave. Roger hardly remembered saying goodbye to the man, and the stream of guests that followed out the front door.

Once everyone had left, Mirka practically dragged him up the steps to the bedroom and helped him shrug off his clothes since the room was sickeningly warm and he did not have the coordination. Roger kept thinking how sleepy he was, but his body felt too awake to slumber. Mirka was still moving around the room and watching her made him dizzy. He closed his eyes and just listened to the shuffling.

It was only a few moments that he stayed like that before Mirka was on him, shaking him awake. “em sleepy,” he mumbled out.

“No way. You can’t do this, not tonight,” Mirka replied. Roger heard plastic tearing and his eyes shot open.

“What’re you doin?” he managed to ask, adrenaline taking over.

“That should be fairly obvious by now,” Mirka’s as she slid down his boxers and moved to roll the condom down his cock. “We always have sex on Christmas.”

“But I’m practically asleep,” Roger reasoned.

“Not all of you,” she said with a devious smirk, cupping his erection to prove her point. Roger wasn’t sure when he’d grown hard, he certainly didn’t feel turned on, but it didn’t seem like Mirka was going to relent. He really didn’t feel like arguing with her over this and certainly didn’t trust himself to come up with a reason they shouldn’t. Something told him that the real reason wouldn’t be well received. I know its tradition Mirka, but I’d much rather hold off and fuck my boyfriend when I see him tomorrow. Roger smiled amusedly, imagining the chaos that such a statement would create and knowing he definitely didn’t want to deal with that now.

“Fine,” he gave in, letting his eyes droop half closed. If she wanted to have sex with him, then she’d have to do all the work. As for him, Roger was just conscious enough to feel the vague pleasurable sensations running through his tired body, and with his mind only dimly aware of his surroundings, it was much easier to pretend it was someone else riding his cock and kissing his neck.

\----------------------------------------------------

Roger woke with a killer headache the next morning, stumbling into the bathroom for some aspirin. His stomach was upset and he resolved never to drink eggnog again. He sat on the ledge of the bathtub, expecting his stomach to empty at any moment. As he sat there Roger noticed the condom wrapper in the trash. He really hoped Mirka had brought it with her since Roger had not bought that brand in years, not since Mason Sebb stopped selling them behind the bleachers after tennis practice when they were fourteen. All of his friends had stocked up, each pretending that they had some use for the rubbers and weren’t just hiding them in drawers at their parent’s house. 

Roger prayed that Mirka had not taken this one from his ancient stash. He was not sure how well he trusted a decade-old condom, especially since the used latex sheath appeared to be in worse shape than usual. Thank God for birth control, he thought, knowing Mirka was too responsible to miss a dose. He inwardly reassured himself that thirty year old women are not exactly fertile and 97 percent protection should be more than enough.

The panic of the faulty condom was enough to upset his hangover-sensitive stomach into emptying. He brushed his teeth five times after retching, further resolving to never touch eggnog again.

They left his parent’s house just after breakfast so he could get packing. Diana stopped by their apartment around lunch to “distract Mirka so he could pack ‘the good stuff.’” He felt terribly over-packed by the end of the day, lugging his two large suitcases into a cab and helping Diana with hers. If Roger had it his way, he wouldn’t need to bring any clothes at all for this week, except maybe a pair of swim trunks.

Roger was surprised by the pouch of money Mirka handed him as they ran out the door to make their flight, reminding him that he is not a great card player and suggesting he “team up” with the more manipulative Diana who was surely an excellent gambler with her training in human behavior. Roger smiled at her kindly, trying not to question why she was being unusually nice and supportive. Maybe she feels bad about her aggressiveness last night, he thought, knowing she didn’t like seeing herself that way. Or maybe she really does have something to feel guilty about…

\-------------------------------------------------------------------  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
\------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Roger didn’t know much about Novak’s life in Monte Carlo. He knew only that the Serb hadn’t lived there long, just over two years, but Roger wasn’t sure what had drawn him so far from his family in Serbia. It was a nice place, Roger recalled from the many tournaments he’d played in the city. The beach was picturesque, though he never had time to go for a swim, and the weather was always sunny which made for perfect playing conditions. It was an odd thing trying to imagine Novak’s home since they spent most of the year in various hotel rooms. His mind kept switching between the ultimate bachelor pad and a chaotic college dorm. He imagined Novak’s style would fit somewhere in between.

He was awed by the beauty of the city at dusk as the last remnants of light shined on the water and the bright lights of the casino began taking over. That is where the car was taking them, to the casino where Roger would supposedly be wasting a week gambling. The thought seemed silly now, to imagine him spending any significant amount of time there and he wondered why Mirka didn’t see through the flimsy excuse. Diana was looking forward to spa treatments and people watching. She has told him more than once that a casino is an excellent place to observe the true character of people, watching them struggling with chance and wallowing in defeat. It sounded rather dreary to Roger, but Diana sure was excited.

Roger would be happy with just seeing Novak. After the stress of the holidays, complete with facing the demise of his relationship with Mirka and the realization that nobody back home even knows him anymore, Roger just wanted to be himself with somebody and Novak is the only person who makes him feel like he isn’t alone.

\--------------------------------------------

Novak was slightly nervous as he fidgeted around in the hotel lobby, waiting for the car to bring Diana and Roger from the airport. It wasn’t that he was nervous to see Roger, his excitement for that is what kept him up all night dreaming of the possibilities this week could hold, it was that this meeting was happening away from the tour and outside of stuffy hotel rooms. They were in Monte Carlo, Novak’s new hometown, and it all felt a bit more real.

Novak hadn’t quite acknowledged the anxiety that loomed at the back of his mind, subtly reminding him that this was a big moment and it could only go two ways. They could come out of this week closer than ever, more secure and comfortable with each other, and intimate in a way he had only dared to imagine.

That was his dream, but it was the other possible result that scared him, it had him literally shaking with fear. There are no rules in Monte Carlo; they don’t have to hide together away from the world because here they aren’t big tennis stars, just regular people. Novak feared that a week would be just long enough for Roger to realize that outside of all the sneaking around, they aren’t anything special. Or worse, he could start to see Novak as the over-privileged brat he once saw, the one that Roger rather openly disliked.

Surely that was an irrational fear, but that didn’t keep him from rearranging the living room furniture three times this morning because he once heard that you can tell everything about a person from their home décor, and everything in his place looked juvenile, immature, or girly because Jelena had furnished most of his flat for him and he didn’t really think much about what she bought. Novak wished that Ana was around to tell him it would all work out, but she was in Spain with Verdasco and he didn’t want to bother her.

Sure, Jelena was here and she had been so helpful throwing together plans with him this week, but he found himself incapable of telling her the full truth. Living in the same apartment building as him, and being his only friend in Monte Carlo, she had seen a different side of him, the person he used to be. She wouldn’t understand what he has with Roger, how important it is to him, because she’s seen too many women come and go from his life to think him capable of caring this deeply. And most of all, she doesn’t know Roger and the power of his presence, or his significance in tennis, she doesn’t know how influential in their world he is or what a wonderful person he is away from the spotlight. She doesn’t understand what Novak would be losing if this doesn’t work out.

He sat down in a plushy looking armchair that was actually quite hard on his back, but it was better than standing there with weak knees looking like a child searching the crowd for his parents. Jelena watched him from behind the counter, looking strange in her businesswoman clothes. She had been promoted to floor manager recently and didn’t have to wear the tacky khaki and navy blue uniform that most employees of the hotel wore. Outside of the hotel, he’d only ever seen her in a t-shirt and jeans, or a swim suit if they went to the beach. It was odd to see her in her workplace, but she seemed to fit the roll of mini-boss quite nicely.

Novak hadn’t gotten up to nerve to tell her about who exactly he was meeting yet. She had figured out he was seeing a man, which didn’t seem to surprise her as much as it should’ve, but she didn’t know who the guy was, or why he was bringing his sister along. Novak still hadn’t quite figured out the best way to tell someone you’re dating Roger Federer. Whenever he thought about them dating it still seemed like one of those impossible dreams, that or the crazy ramblings of a madman. As far as the world knows, Roger is practically engaged, and he hates Novak, or really just dislikes him since Roger is too polite to ever hate someone openly.

Jelena flashed him an apologetic look and wandered off with a seemingly dissatisfied customer. No sooner than she’d shut the door to her office, Diana walked in waving for the bellman to follow with a cart full of bags and Roger walking beside him, insisting on carrying something. He felt his pulse speed up and couldn’t shake the smile on his face even if he wanted to. Diana spotted him quickly and before he knew it she had wrapped him in a tight hug. Roger abandoned his efforts when he spotted his boyfriend and gave him a jokingly apologetic look when Diana hung onto him for a bit too long, squeezing until his lungs felt tight.

Novak was anxious to get Diana settled in to her suite so he could steal Roger away from this part of town where the chances of them being photographed together were quite high. A quarter of an hour later they were back downstairs, wishing Diana luck as she walked into the Casino, fancy cocktail in hand, seemingly delighted by the plethora of gamblers, from the drunken addicts with rings around their eyes from lack of sleep to the newbies who are experiencing their first taste of success and desperate for more.

“I bet she’ll be running a gambling support group by the end of the week,” Roger joked, watching as she zeroed in on a bunch that looked particularly hopeless.

“Maybe she can take over the gamblers anonymous meetings at the hotel. They have one every hour of the afternoon to keep up with the guilt. I guess it doesn’t sink in until after lunch,” Novak quipped, earning him an amused chuckle. God he’d missed Roger’s laugh.

\-------------------

As they walked down the street, away from the bright lights of the Casino and Roger’s sister who was happily gambling within, Novak slipped his hand into Roger’s, intertwining their fingers sweetly. Roger smiled at him briefly before pulling away, remembering there could be cameras anywhere and that the sight of them together could be career-ending for them both.

“What’s wrong?” Novak asked and Roger could see the hurt in his eyes.

“It’s just- someone could see us,” Roger explained.

Novak smiled amusedly, thoroughly confusing Roger. “Even if they did, they couldn’t tell anyone. At least not anyone outside of Monte Carlo...”

“Why not?”

“You’ve never heard of the Monte Carlo Discretion Law?”

Roger obviously thought he was joking. “No.”

“Most people call it Prince Rainer’s Privacy Law because it was his idea. After his wife’s very public death, Rainer moved his family to a villa in Monte Carlo and made a law protecting the city from reporters and photographers. He was trying to shield future generations of royals from the invasive media, but it’s mostly the celebrity residents that benefit.”

“Why haven’t I heard of this before?” Roger asked, excited by the idea of freedom. “We play two tournaments here a year.”

“The law isn’t quite so effective with a swarm of tourists in town, but technically they aren’t supposed to say anything. Even if they get a picture, the government will stop it from ever going public.”

“So then it’s safe to do this?” Roger asked with a devious smirk, taking Novak’s hand and pulling him close, the two of them leaning against a light pole, kissing hungrily and subtly rubbing against each other. Roger had missed the firm confidence of Novak’s lips, his taste, and the tenderness that was always there, even when they were consumed by the passion of the moment.

“Ahem,” they heard, breaking apart to find an older couple passing them on the sidewalk. Novak gave them an unforgiving glare that made it clear he wouldn’t be apologizing any time soon. The couple scurried off quickly after that, probably afraid they would start grinding on each other again.

“Just because they can’t tell on us doesn’t mean they won’t judge,” Novak said, rolling his eyes in annoyance. With one last peck, Novak grabbed Roger’s hand and continued their walk toward his home, though slightly faster than before, both anxious to get to Novak’s place to start the real reunion.

“Did you know about the law when you moved here?” Roger asked, curious why Novak would crave privacy two years prior, well before he had drawn much media attention.

Novak seemed to blush, but Roger couldn’t quite tell in the dusky lighting. He was slow to answer. “I wasn’t always the person I am now and it’s probably best that phase of my life stayed quiet.”

Novak didn’t offer any more and Roger wasn’t sure he wanted to ask for elaboration. What was he doing that needed so much secrecy? Roger wondered, trying very hard to ignore the voice in his head paraphrasing the Tennis Watch article about Murray and Novak’s party habits. He’d written it off as casual slander, but maybe there was more truth in the story than he’d been willing to see. If that was the case, Novak seemed appropriately shameful for his past behavior and Roger decided instantly that the Serb was forgiven for whatever it was that he didn’t want to talk about. Novak was looking back on that time with the embarrassed flush that only comes with all-knowing hindsight. Roger had a similar period in his life, when he gave into the temptation of alcohol and partying, but that ended abruptly with the death of his mentor. Roger wondered what Novak’s wake-up call was…

The walk was longer than Roger had expected, and he was glad that his bags were being delivered the next morning instead of having to lug them around for a couple of blocks. The city at night was truly a fantastic sight and Roger felt at peace as he walked through the streets with Novak by his side, occasionally pointing out an interesting landmark or sharing a story. Roger didn’t get to see Novak like this enough, happy and relaxed, free from the pressures of being an up-and-coming tennis star and sports celebrity. Roger had been unsure what to expect from this visit. They were so used to sneaking around that he didn’t know what it would be like to be together unguardedly. What he found was a sense of comfort, like they had always been together this way and always would be.

Just as the salty fresh smell of the ocean drifted over them, a large apartment complex came into view. The outside of the building fit in with the classic architecture of the city around them, though it was obviously quite a bit newer than the surrounding villas and shops. One side of the complex looked newer than the rest, though the bricks had obviously gone through an aging treatment in attempt to match. Roger figured they would look identical in a couple years.

Novak led him to the newer side, opening a tall gate that surrounded that corner of the building. Inside, Roger expected the air conditioning units and power generators that were typically hidden somewhere on the property behind fences like this. Instead, he found a rather large yard with a small garden, grill and patio furniture. Looking up he saw a balcony on the third floor that looked unlike the small rickety ones attached to the other parts of the building.

“Come on,” Novak said, guiding him around to the front entrance. They came into a hallway with several doors, though none on the same side as the one Novak stood beside. It seemed he had that entire part of the building to himself. Something about them being alone in the hallway as Novak shuffled through his key chain, examining the keys and mumbling about how he should really mark them somehow so he could tell them apart, made Roger feel the need to be closer to his young lover. He moved behind the Serb, hugging him from behind and kissing his neck. Novak tried to ignore him and stick to his task, but he found himself moaning and rolling back his head to give Roger better access.

Finally he found the key and they were on each other the moment the door was closed. Moonlight streamed into the room from the glass patio doors and Roger could see the little yard through them. Novak led him to what looked like a couch and they collapsed onto it. Clothes were shed quickly with the expertise they’d found over their months together, all while their mouths stayed connected. Roger looked around for something to serve as lube. He had some in his bags but they wouldn’t be here for another couple of hours.

Novak caught on quickly. “Side table, drawer under the lamp.”

Roger looked at him oddly, wondering why Novak would keep it there, but his look was lost in the dark. He grabbed the bottle and a condom, returning to his place between Novak’s legs. He kissed his way back up to Novak’s mouth, missing him already. He poured the slimy liquid on his fingers and gently pushed one in. Novak tensed for a moment, but relaxed after a couple deep breaths. Roger moved his finger around experimentally, stretching the tight heat around him. He slid in a second digit, kissing down Novak’s jaw to gently suck at his neck, wanting Novak’s mouth to be free so he could hear his breathy moans. Roger twisted his fingers, searching for his lover’s prostate, smirking in satisfaction when he brushed it, causing Novak to cry out and mewl beneath him.

“I want you in me,” Novak whispered huskily with desire clouding his eyes. Roger could only nod, pulling out his fingers and rolling on the condom and coating his cock in lube. He pushed in slowly, but persistently, until his cock was fully engulfed. Then he waited, knowing Novak would need a moment to adjust to the slight burning and the pressure of being filled. He had his eyes screwed closed, reminding Roger that it had been nearly a month since they had done this and he hoped he hadn’t rushed anything.

“M’kay,” Novak said, wrapping his legs around Roger’s back and pulling his mouth close as Roger’s hips began to move, thrusting shallowly until he found his rhythm. Roger changed his angle slightly, rewarded with a shaky moan. Roger kept thrusting, closing his eyes in concentration. He was surprised how close he was already and determined to bring Novak off with him. Roger grabbed the hard cock in front of him and pumped it in time with his own thrusts. He felt Novak’s muscles spasm around him and his cock twitch in Roger’s hand. With four more thrusts, Novak was coming on his hand and their stomachs, the sight pushing Roger over the edge.

Roger pulled out gently, discarding the condom in a nearby trash bin and collapse into Novak’s arms. They laid there until their breathing evened out; relishing the feeling of being in each other’s arms again.

“So this is the living room,” Novak said smartly.

\---------------------------

Roger had been in the apartment for two days before he actually took a good look around. He mostly found his way by remembering the many places they’d had sex and the paths they stumbled along to get there. Novak was usually there to guide him, but the Serb was still asleep and Roger was hungry, so he sought out the designer kitchen that he vaguely recalled catching a glimpse of at some point. Bottom floor? He asked himself, nodding his agreement. It would be silly to put a kitchen anywhere else. He found the living room (and their favorite couch) and he remembered Novak fetching them some drinks from somewhere nearby.

He turned the corner and nearly ran into a stainless steel door covered in magnets. Roger was just about to nudge the door closed when it swung back into place right in front of him, revealing a dark haired girl who was far too perky for this early in the morning. She was so busy piddling around in the kitchen that it took her a moment to notice Roger frozen in the doorway. She yelped in surprise and moved back a couple paces, clutching her chest dramatically as she regained her breath.

“My God, you startled me,” she breathed, picking up an array of fruit that she had knocked out of the bowl on the counter. Roger looked at her closely, unsure who she was or why she was here. It occurred to him that he might’ve stumbled into somebody else’s apartment. He never really understood these loft-style apartments with minimal walls and almost no doors. But this woman looked familiar. Roger’s first guess was that he had seen her around the building somewhere, but he quickly wrote that off considering that the closest he’d been to outside since his first night here was answering the door for takeout food last night. Roger was certain he had seen her before, and not just in passing either. He felt like he had looked at her before, really looked and actually thought about her for a moment.

“Oh sorry,” Roger apologized when she was done picking up fruit.

When he looked closer, it was suddenly quite obvious who this woman was and Roger wasn’t quite sure how to act. Jelena Ristic, a girl he’s seen a dozen times in the stands, and brushed shoulders with at many events. Novak’s on and off girlfriend, or so the media claims, and Roger couldn’t help but wonder if they were supposedly on right now and what that meant for him. Just the fact that he recognized her was astounding considering Roger wasn’t exactly aware of the other player’s personal lives. Roger didn’t even know his good friend Roddick was dating anyone until he got their wedding announcement. In the last four months, Novak never mentioned Jelena, let alone the status of their relationships, not that they really discussed things like that. It’s not like I talk about Mirka to him either, Roger reasoned. He looked at Jelena skeptically, sincerely hoping that he wasn’t about to have an altercation with a vengeful (ex?) girlfriend.

“Oh my fucking God!” she swore, her flustered shock turning into excitement. Roger was jilted by the swearing at this time of day, mostly because he didn’t yet know why she was cursing at him. “It’s YOU!” she shouted, rapidly moving toward him. She looked offended when he shuffled back a few paces.

Roger smiled hesitantly. He was suddenly quite happy that he’d remembered to pull on some boxers before wandering around Novak’s place or this would have been sufficiently more awkward. “Um yes, it’s me,” Roger replied lamely as she looked him over. He fought the urge to scuttle over behind the countertop to hide himself from this stranger.

She regrouped. “Sorry. I went a little fan-girl on you. My name is Jelena. I’m a friend of Nole’s,” Jelena explained much more rationally and from her side of the kitchen. Roger nodded, he’d figured out that much already. He was relieved that she didn’t introduce herself as his girlfriend. “I live a couple apartments over. I come bearing breakfast,” she joked.

Roger smiled, relieved this woman wasn’t about to slap him for fucking her boyfriend. “Nice to meet you,” Roger said sheepishly, embarrassed by his overreaction and the state of his appearance.

“I thought I’d bring over some groceries too. Not that Novak cooks or anything. I think I’ve seen six different delivery boys this week already.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Novak’s voice came floating in from behind them. “I’m an excellent cook. Practically a chef,” he said, stretching dramatically as he yawned and wrapping his arm around Roger with a quick peck.

“You must be joking. I’ve seen you burn toast…in a toaster,” Jelena quipped, offering them the muffins she’d been arranging on a fancy plate.

Novak feigned offense. “You’re so friendly in the mornings, Jel. The customers must love you,” Novak said sarcastically.

“Morning? In what time zone is it still morning?! I’m just humoring you with the breakfast food. It’s past noon, babe.”

Roger tried not to flinch at the casual endearment. It was entertaining to listen to their banter, but also a little disconcerting. Their tone was different than Novak with Ana, not quite as sibling-like. There was something flirty about their interaction that put Roger on edge. The only thing that kept Roger from being downright jealous was Novak’s hand, gently stroking his back, knowing that it drives Roger crazy. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable wearing only boxers, which wouldn’t hide much of his growing arousal. Damn, Novak and his wandering hand, Roger inwardly cursed, trying to figure out a way to make a quick escape. Novak must’ve figured out that they had company because he had the good sense to pull on some pajama bottoms.

“I’m going to go put on some clothes,” Roger announced, reluctantly pulling away from Novak. He tried not to notice Jelena taking one last glance at his body before he left the room. It was odd for someone to make him feel so flattered, and yet jealous at the same time. Novak was less subtle, pulling him back for a kiss and openly groping his ass.

“Save the shower for later,” Novak suggested with a significant look. Roger knew eventually he’d have to learn how to say no to Novak, but with offers like that, he wasn’t about to start trying now.

\----------------

Roger wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but he heard his name before he was even five paces away from the door, and nobody can resist hearing people talk about them.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it was Roger fucking Federer! Here I was thinking your little visitor was some random guy on tour, or one of those Spaniards, they all seem a little bisexual. I even thought it was Murray. At least that would explain why you two aren’t BFF’s anymore. And this whole time you’ve been dating the face of professional tennis, the best of the best, the great champion!”

Roger blushed, even if nobody could see him.

“Have you ever considered going into advertising? That was pretty good,” Novak joked. Roger could imagine her giving him a look at that comment. “I know I probably should’ve told you, but we couldn’t risk people finding out about us. It’s too…”

“Important?” Jelena suggested softly.

“Yeah, something like that,” Novak answered sheepishly. Roger felt little butterflies in his chest.

“So how inappropriate would it be for me to get his autograph,” Jelena said, changing the tone back to playful.

“Jel!”

“What? How many famous people have I seen in their knickers?”

Roger blushed again. He hoped she meant that he was the only one, and that she’d never seen Novak wearing so little.

“It doesn’t have to be a poster or a racket. That’s too obvious. Just something simple—like this mug.”

“Hey, that’s mine!” Novak shouted and Roger could imagine him grabbing it from her like a child.

“Did you seriously write your name on the bottom of that cup?” Jelena asked, seeming shocked and entertained.

“I’m convinced that cleaning lady steals my stuff when I’m gone. This will make it easier to catch her.”

“She does not steal anything. I’ve known Hilda for years. I wouldn’t let her come in here if I didn’t trust her.”

“Then where is my coffee-maker?”

“I don’t know, 1998?” Jelena sniped. “People have espresso machines now. Why would she want something so outdated?”

Roger laughed and walked away. He liked Jelena, she had spunk, and that same aggressive sense of humor that Novak has. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to them than just a friendship between neighbors. Roger quickly rummaged through his bag to find decent clothes, throwing them on without much thought. He felt weird leaving Jelena alone with Novak too long. His straight side might come back out of the closet.

\----------------------

“The great chef Nole will be cooking dinner for us on Thursday night,” Jelena announced when he returned to the kitchen. Jelena had her back to him, doing something near the stove while Novak was sitting in the breakfast nook watching the birds outside and eating. Roger felt silly for worrying. He didn’t expect to find them making out or anything, just maybe flirting like before, only more openly since he wasn’t around.

“It’s going to be awesome,” Novak promised, waving Roger over to sit with him. Roger smiled, wondering how much of this bad cook thing was a bluff. Surely someone must’ve taught Novak to cook, though Roger couldn’t really imagine Mrs. Djokovic in the kitchen, pancake restaurant or not.

“You haven’t told us what you’re making,” Jelena teased, putting the Serb on the spot.

“Well I can make spaghetti…or spaghetti,” Novak said, exhausting the menu options he is capable of.

“How about some spaghetti?” Roger suggested, playing along.

Novak smiled. “I’ll take that as a request. Spaghetti it is.”

“Lukas will love that,” Jelena said, unknowingly relieving Roger’s nerves. She has a boyfriend! “Should I invite your sister? I’m going to the hotel soon. I could track her down,” Jelena suggested.

“That’d be great,” Roger replied, happy to include Diana.

Jelena forced a plate of veggie omelets on them and Roger was amused by Novak’s protests. She claimed that the next time she saw his trainer; she wanted to be able to look him in the eyes and say she’s not a junk food enabler.

“Oh and Luk wants to go to the beach soon. He gets out at noon tomorrow. Are you guys busy?”

Novak looked over at Roger, asking his opinion. “I brought a suit,” he replied. “And I’ve never been to the beach here before.”

Jelena smiled. “Then it’s settled,” she said as she rushed out the door.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing Roger noticed about Lukas was not his sunny blond hair or his big blue eyes—it was his age, or really the lack of it. Lukas happens to be a child, probably around seven years old, and definitely not Jelena’s boyfriend. The question is, if he isn’t her boyfriend, or even an appropriate aged friend, then who is he? Lukas seemed just as curious about him, though the way the boy sized him up was almost predatory.

From the moment Lukas jumped out of the car, he was stuck to Novak’s side like glue, leaving very little room for Roger. The boy looked up at him skeptically as he pushed his way between them and made it clear that Novak was his for the day. Novak gave him a feigned stern glare, but he was clearly too attached to Lukas to tell him no. Jelena unloaded various bags of beach toys and supplies from her car and recruited Novak and Lukas into carrying them to their spot on the beach. Roger helped her with the picnic basket and cooler.

“He’s my nephew,” she explained, sparing Roger the awkwardness of having to ask.

“That makes sense. I can’t imagine someone your age having a child. You would’ve had to have been…” Roger hesitated, wondering if it was rude to speculate.

“I was sixteen when he was born. My sister was twenty-two,” she offered.

“Does she live here too?” Roger asked as they walked across the sand.

“Not exactly. It’s kind of a long story,” she said, backing away from the subject.

“Well I’ve got plenty of time,” Roger said, spreading out a towel to lay on where the boys had left their stuff. He offered the place beside him to Jelena. “There’s no way I’m playing Frisbee,” he joked, nodding toward Novak and Lukas.

Jelena smiled and settled in to tell her story, obviously delighted by her famous audience. “Well my sister isn’t exactly the ideal parent. She never dropped him on his head or anything, but for most of his life, she’s been kind of absent.”

Roger didn’t seem too freaked out by the hint of neglect, so Jelena continued. “My sister became a flight attendant when she was eighteen, she met a pilot named Johan and within a year they were married. They seemed happy at first, but it wasn’t long before she started hearing rumors of him cheating. She was worried he would leave her. Instead of approaching him about the rumors, she decided to find a way to make sure he could never leave her. She got pregnant.

“It actually worked, for a while at least. They were a happy little family until Lukas was about three years old. Johan went back to work, but he would come home as much as possible, bringing Luke whatever he picked up along the way. They were good together, but then the rumors started again and Shelly rushed back to work to keep an eye on Johan. Lukas got dumped on a full time nanny.

“It took us a while to figure out the situation because every time we came to visit, Shelly made sure she was there playing the part of the perfect mother. Last year I was visiting a friend in Marseille and I took a train over here for a quick visit. That’s when I met the woman who had been taking care of my nephew the past couple of years. She said that Shelly hadn’t been there in over three months. That’s when I decided to pack up my life and move to Monte Carlo. I was only twenty-one, I didn’t know much about taking care of a kid, but Lukas deserved more than absentee parents and a permanent babysitter. A couple months later, I filed for guardianship.”

Roger smiled at her, genuine and bright, making the girl blush.

“What?” she asked.

“That’s a beautiful story,” Roger said sweetly. “And you’re amazing for doing that for him. Not everybody would be caring enough to give up their whole life for their family.”

Jelena laughed. “Oh stop it! You’re making me blush. Compliments from Roger freaking Federer, this is definitely a highlight.”

“Highlight of what?”

“My life,” she said, as if it was obvious.

\---------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t until lunch that Lukas disconnected from Novak long enough to wonder who Roger was, and even then, it probably had more to do with how closely they were sitting than genuine curiosity.

“Who are you?” Lukas asked bluntly in a tone that would seem rude from anyone other than a child.

“My name is Roger,” he answered simply in what he assumed was a child-friendly tone.

“Where did you come from?” the boy asked, and Roger looked at the others for help. He liked children just fine, but he was a bit out of practice talking to them.

Novak smiled and came to his rescue. “Roger is my friend, Luke. He’s staying with me for a couple of days,” the Serb explained, taking Roger’s hand into his own reassuringly.

“In your house?” Lukas asked excitedly.

“Yes, in my house,” Novak repeated, somehow managing to not sound condescending.

“He’s your friend, like Andy?” Lukas asked, stuffing his mouth with potato chips and hardly aware that he was treading on a touchy subject.

“Kind of like Andy, I guess,” Novak responded vaguely.

“Do you play tennis too?” Lukas turned to Roger, finally excited by his presence. It seems like he was finally warming up to the Swiss man. The adults shared a bit of a laugh at that one before Roger responded that yes, he plays tennis.

“I like tennis. In a couple years, I’m going to tennis school like Djordje. He said I could,” Lukas explained as if the matter was completely up to Djordje to decide.

“Maybe. You might get to go to the academy in a couple years,” Jelena interjected. Lukas ignored her.

“Djordje is my best friend,” he told Roger. “We watch tennis together. Nole plays tennis in front of like, one hundred people. We sit in a special box with saved seats for us. Everybody loves Novak and they cheer his name.”

“A hundred people? That’s pretty cool,” Roger responded amusedly, sharing a smile with Novak. “I didn’t know you were so popular,” Roger teased the Serb, earning him a playful shove.

Lukas watched them with curious eyes before asking, “Why does Roger sleep in your house, but Andy sleeps at the hotel?” Roger waited for one of the others to respond. He assumed that when Murray came to Monte Carlo he would stay at Novak’s place. There are plenty of guest rooms, Roger has seen them first-hand.

“Um,” Novak said, searching for a child-friendly answer. He looked at Jelena who shrugged, giving her permission to tell Lukas the truth, if only he could find a way to explain it. Lukas beat him to the punch.

“Is Roger your boyfriend?” Lukas asked, shocking them all.

“How do you know—?” Jelena asked.

“I’m not a baby,” he answered coldly. “Lorin from school told me that her dad has a boyfriend, so now she has two dads and a mom. And her new dad is teaching her how to surf. It’s really cool,” Lukas told them, as if they didn’t know.

Novak shrugged; grateful that little Lorin broke the news to Lukas so he didn’t have to. “Well since you already know. Roger is my boyfriend.”

“I knew it!” Lukas shouted triumphantly, knocking over everything near him in his excitement. Novak gave Jelena a look that said, “That is what you looked like yesterday.” She punched him in the arm for that.

“I’m going to have a boyfriend too,” Lukas informed them. “Girls are icky,” he said, turning to Roger, who found himself nodding in agreement before he stopped himself. Trust a seven year old to bring out your true feelings in ten minutes when it took you years to figure it out on your own.

“Nole, do you think that Djordje will be my boyfriend?” Lukas asked hopefully.

Novak looked sad for a moment. “You can’t tell Djordje about me and Roger, buddy. He can’t know I have a boyfriend.”

“Why not? He thinks girls are icky too. I think we should all have boyfriends.”

“Maybe we should,” Novak agreed casually, earning a glare from Jelena.

“Um, or maybe you should wait a couple of years before deciding that,” Novak advised, Jelena nodded her approval.

“How many years?” Lukas asked, obviously disappointed that he couldn’t copy Novak’s relationship choices now.

“Five?” Novak suggested and Jelena elbowed him in the ribs. “He’ll only be twelve!” she whispered.

“More like ten,” Jelena answered.

“What? Then he’ll be seventeen!”

“That seems like a good age,” Jelena reasoned, failing to see the problem.

Novak shook his head, “Fifteen is reasonable, seventeen is ridiculous!”

“Fine, eight years,” she relented.

Lukas pouted. “Fine, but I’m going to pretend Djordje is my boyfriend. We’re going to play football and tennis and video games and watch movies and climb trees and play race cars,” Lukas declared. “What else do boyfriends do, Nole?”

Roger and Novak shared a bashful smile. “Nothing,” they answered together and Jelena had to hide her giggle. “That’s about it,” Novak confirmed.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Jelena and Lukas left the beach just as the sun started to fall in the sky, leaving Roger and Novak alone to enjoy the sunset. The picnic basket was still half full and there were plenty of drinks in the cooler, they could stay out there all night if they wanted. The moment was so peaceful that it had Roger thinking deep thoughts.

“I wasn’t always the person I am now either,” Roger announced softly, remembering Novak’s words from earlier, explaining his move to Monte Carlo.

Novak looked at him with curiosity, mostly because Roger was continuing a conversation from days ago as if it had just happened. “Really?” Novak responded skeptically. He’d always known Roger to be this perfect man who was all polite manners and charm, Novak couldn’t even imagine him as anything else.

“Well I’m sure you’ve heard that I was a bit of a hothead as a junior, but at that age, who isn’t?” Roger asked, giving Novak a poignant look that clearly said you were one too. “But that’s not what I meant. When I first joined the tour I was lucky enough to have success pretty soon. Within a year of going pro I was already making the semis and finals pretty regularly, and even holding my own against guys like Agassi. I started thinking I was invincible or something. Instead of preparing for matches, I’d go out partying. I even went into a match once without sleeping or even showering; I just changed clothes and went on court. I wasn’t even giving half my effort and I still managed to make the top twenty. But I wasn’t enjoying any of it. That whole period of my life is a blur. Reporters still ask me about my match with Sampras in 2001 and I barely remember it at all.”

Novak was shocked; he didn’t know all of this. Roger was just breaking through the ranks and becoming a young superstar when Novak started taking tennis seriously. It was crazy to think that when Roger was partying all night in clubs, Novak probably wasn’t even a teenager yet. It seems that tennis players might go through similar processes. Go pro, get famous, go crazy, settle down and actually play some good tennis. Maybe the going crazy was part of the career cycle.

“What made you change?” Novak asked carefully, knowing that people don’t just decide to stop that lifestyle, something significant has to happen.

“One night I was out partying and a phone call came. My coach, the one who discovered me and taught me everything I know, he was dead. I think I was a bit traumatized by that call. For the rest of my life, that is how I will remember hearing the news, in some random club with a bunch of boozy strangers. I was probably doing the same when he actually passed away. I just kept thinking he was the man who introduced me to tennis, taught me to love the game, and how a gentleman should act on court. I had lost all that at some point and his death put everything back in focus for me. I figured the best way to honor him was to be the man, and player, he always wanted me to be.”

“I’m sorry that happened,” Novak sympathized. He never knew about this side of Roger, or heard this story about his coach. It must’ve happened while Novak was still training at the academy in Germany. They never let him think about anything other than the game there.

“Me too. I used to think it was my fault. I convinced him to go on that trip. He was nervous but I talked him into it. I spent my twenty-first birthday making funeral arrangements for my dead friend, all that time thinking I’d basically killed him,” Roger paused and Novak just let him think.

“I don’t think of it like that anymore. I think of all he’s done for me and how thankful I am that he came into my life. I wouldn’t have made it out of Switzerland without him. Every time someone compliments me on my manners or what a gentleman I am, or speaks kindly of me, I feel like its honoring him.”

“That’s a beautiful story,” Novak commented. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Roger smiled.

“I’m surprised I haven’t heard it before with all those biographies out there in the works.”

“True. Most of them acknowledge the sudden change in behavior, but don’t know what to attribute it to. Who knows, it’ll be years before they can publish those. Maybe they’ll figure it out by then.”

They were quiet for a while, the soft sound of the waves lulling them into companionable silence. Novak didn’t even know his fingers were moving until Roger’s hand covered his to stop the movement across his chest. These light touches never failed to drive Roger crazy and he admitted as much.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Roger whispered breathily.

“Well, I’d hate for you to turn into a crazy person,” Novak said smartly, earning him a look that read “stop being a smartass.”

“What do you suggest we do then?” Novak asked, his hand teasing lower and really getting Roger going.

Roger looked around the beach nervously. They hadn’t actually seen anyone out here for over an hour, and even then they were so far of f in the distance that they were basically little blurbs of colorful spandex. “Out here?”

“Why not?” Novak asked seductively, kissing his way up Roger’s bicep and moving on top of the Swiss man.

“Someone could see us! And if they did manage to get a picture, I don’t think any government could stop it from going public,” Roger said, trying to muster up some sort of firmness on the issue, but realizing his protests were half-assed at best.

“If someone happened to see, if they figured out who we are, if they got a picture, if they got it past the government,” Novak said, punctuating each point with a kiss. “That’s a whole lot of if’s.”

Roger knew that as well as anybody. Most of their lives were left up to chance, but he didn’t have the same boldness in his spirit that Novak did.

“We don’t have to,” Novak said, climbing off Roger, breaking them out of the moment and back to reality. He sounded disappointed, but not at all resentful. Who said he was a brat who couldn’t stand not getting his way? Roger thought, feeling the selfless nature of the Serb even in this simple situation.

“Oh no you don’t,” Roger said, pulling Novak back over him, the Serb straddling his hips. “You don’t get to back out after you’ve got me all worked up,” Roger said, loving the bright happy smile he got in return. It’s not that Novak always had to get his way; Roger just couldn’t stand being the person to deny him. Besides, a little adventure every now and then wouldn’t kill him. What’s the worst that could happen? So what if someone got pictures of them, it’s not like he would play his matches any differently, and he’d always have Novak, and knowing that made the risk worth overcoming.

Novak smiled and started undoing Roger’s swim shorts, taking his time as Roger squirmed underneath him. Once they were unfastened, Roger practically bucked Novak off of him to slide them down his legs. He wasn’t fond of Novak’s teasing pace. Novak smirked, amused by Roger’s excitement. Novak slid his own Speedo off seductively and with all the grace in the world, ensuring that Roger couldn’t look away or be mad at him, even if he wanted. Roger nearly shouted when Novak walked off and started digging through the bag that Jelena had left.

Just as he was about to ask, not very nicely, what the hell was in that bag that was more important than what they were doing, Novak returned to him, holding a condom and a tube of sunscreen. Roger smirked, wondering if Jelena had left that bag with them intentionally. Novak smiled and moved over him again, bringing their lips together and letting his hands explore Roger’s body underneath him. When they pulled away, Novak looked at the tube of lotion apprehensively.

“It was all I could find,” he explained as he squirted the greasy lotion over his fingers. To their surprise, it was purple. Not only were they left with sunscreen as their only lube option, it was bright purple, berry scented, children’s sunscreen.

Novak laughed at the ridiculousness of it as he coated his fingers and snaked his arm behind his body and started to prep himself. They had never done it this way, Roger thought. He was always the one to stretch Novak, and as much as he missed that feeling, in some ways this was much hotter. He wondered if Novak had ever done this before, and couldn’t help his mind from imagining the Serb doing this while pleasuring himself and decided that he might ask Novak to get off like this front of him sometime.

Roger decided to make himself useful, which basically meant slipping on a rubber and spreading some of the obnoxious sunscreen onto his length. Roger told himself he was just rubbing in the lotion to speed things along, but really, he couldn’t keep his hand away from his cock while watching Novak who had his eyes twisted shut as he flexed his fingers and tugged on his cock.

Roger knew the exact moment Novak’s fingers brushed his bundle of nerves. His eyelids twitched over his eyes and a shiver ran through his whole body. His legs probably would’ve collapsed underneath him if not for Roger holding him up.

“I’m ready,” he breathed and Roger pulled him in for a kiss as they moved into a comfortable position.

“Is it okay like this?” Novak asked, since he’d never been on top like this before.

“Perfect,” Roger said, letting Novak take the lead and set their pace.

Novak lowered himself on Roger’s length slowly, letting each inch stretch him like his fingers never could. Roger fought the urge to thrust up, the feeling of tightness heightened in this position and overwhelming him. Roger focused on kissing Novak and stroking his cock, anything to keep his hips at bay. He couldn’t believe how much tighter Novak felt in this position, especially compared to how a woman would feel.

Novak moaned as the last bit slipped inside him, filling him completely. He flexed his muscles, caressing Roger’s cock from inside. Roger let out an ungraceful ‘ugh’. Novak kissed him passionately, smiling at how he can reduce one of the most eloquently articulate men in the world to mere grunts.

“Feels amazing,” Roger whispered into his cheek.

“You have no idea,” Novak replied, giving his cock one last squeeze before pulling almost all the way off. He moved faster after that, bouncing up and down, Roger meeting him at every thrust. It was harder to find Novak’s prostate at this angle, but once Roger found it he aimed for it every time, loving the shiver he could feel pass through Novak’s body each time they connected. Just as Roger was beginning to feel his orgasm approaching, he felt Novak’s muscles spasm around him, ripping it from him.

Novak collapsed forward onto his chest and Roger wrapped his arms around him. He kissed his cheek sweetly and cherishing the moment as his ears began adjusting back to the soft sound of the waves breaking on the shore, finally able to hear more than his heartbeat and the sound of them coming together. They had sex on the beach, Roger still couldn’t believe it.

“I don’t want to get up,” Novak said after a while, and if not for the chilly night breeze, Roger would’ve totally agreed with him.

Roger laughed. “We might’ve been lucky enough not to be spotted tonight, but we’d be pretty hard to miss tomorrow. I’m sure some runner would come over here while we’re sleeping and think we’re dead bodies washed up on the beach.”

“Well that’s pleasant,” Novak said jovially. “Then someone would definitely take pictures. How often do naked bodies wash up on the beach?”

“Probably more often than you’d think.”

“Okay fine, I’ll get up,” Novak relented; sliding Roger’s softened cock out of him carefully. “But only because I have no interest in being photographed like this,” he announced, indicating the purple lotion that had somehow found its way all over his body and the sand that was beginning to cling to it.

“I guess one more dip in the ocean is in order,” Roger suggested, noticing that he had not been spared from the purple mess either.

“I’ll race you there,” Novak said playfully, taking off in a full sprint.

Roger was only a second behind him, anticipating the challenge as soon as they stood up. Novak may be several years younger, but Roger was in much better shape, at least according to John McEnroe and Brad Gilbert, but they’ve never seen Novak like this.

\--------------------------------------------

They pulled on their clothes quickly after toweling off, the chilly breeze feeling much colder after drenching themselves in water. Roger was amused when Novak skipped the Speedo altogether and pulled on his cargo shorts, explaining, “I can’t go walking around in that at this time of night. People might get the wrong idea.”

Roger nodded in agreement. As much as he loved Novak in the Speedo there was no denying that away from the beach, wearing only that suit, he might have looked like a stripper.

When they got to the place where the beach met the street, near the car park where they met up with Jelena earlier, Roger noticed a fairly obvious sign that he had somehow missed before.

“Private Beach property?” Roger asked incredulously. Novak just smirked. Underneath those words were two more, Novak Djokovic.

“You mean that whole time, nobody was allowed to come near us—by law?”

“They could walk along the shore. I don’t own the water,” Novak replied smartly.

“But you let me worry about people discovering us when we were safe the whole time?”

“What is life without a little perceived danger?” Novak answered innocently, but he couldn’t keep the smile away. “I was going to tell you, but then you said yes anyway.”

Roger smiled back, not happy about being tricked, but happy he let himself be free and daring, even if he was safe all along.

“You really are a jerk,” Roger said, giving the Serb a playful shove.

“I think you mean the Djerk,” Novak corrected, for once not minding that name.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

It turns out that Novak’s version of spaghetti is ready-made, boil-and-serve pasta, and store-bought tomato sauce. Roger laughed when Novak picked up these items and headed for the register.

“She’s going to know if it’s all store-bought,” Roger claimed.

“I never said I could make it from scratch,” Novak reasoned innocently.

“Go get a basket,” Roger directed, smiling at the adorableness of Novak’s lack of culinary talent as he put the processed items back on the shelf. It amazed him that anyone could get to Novak’s age without learning how to cook something. When Novak returned, Roger had an armful of ingredients, all of which he explained to the Serb as he placed them in the basket.

“The pasta can stay. Nobody makes their own pasta anymore, except really authentic Italian grandmothers,” Roger joked. “It’s a pain to make the dough, and honestly, I don’t taste the difference.

“The bread is easy too. You just get a loaf from the bakery, smear on some butter and garlic salt and toast it.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Novak asked, surprised by Roger’s willingness to share in the silly bet.

“Because you’re still making dinner,” said Roger, smirking. Novak looked over the ingredients in the cart, confident that he didn’t know what to do with any of them. “I’ll help, of course, but you’ll feel so much better if you can prove Jelena wrong without lying.”

Novak kissed him sweetly. “Thank you,” he said with a shy smile.

“For what?”

“Teaching me to cook something. Nobody has ever bothered, they just tell me how bad I am at it.”

“Well, don’t thank me yet, I haven’t seen how hopeless you are yet,” Roger joked.

\------

As they were walking home, a little brown fluff ball started following them. When Novak noticed their follower, he broke off a small piece of bread and called for the dog to move closer. He made all sorts of whistling and kissy noises, but the dog just stared at him blankly. Then he tried talking to it, to Roger’s infinite amusement.

“Viens ici, chien!”

“Viens chiot!”

“Ici cher!”

When he said cher, the little dog trotted over. Roger laughed at him for speaking French to the dog.

“What? People mostly speak French around here. Why wouldn’t he understand?”

“You know if you give that dog food, it’ll follow us home,” Roger cautioned him.

Novak smiled, “I’ve never had a dog,” he said innocently. “And this one doesn’t have a collar.”

“Jelena is going to kill you,” Roger said, leaning down to pet the pup. “Tu es mignon.”

“I’ll just tell her it’s for Luk. She wouldn’t take a dog away from a child,” Novak defended, though he didn’t look quite certain.

\----------------------------

Roger watched the tomato sauce as it simmered, smelling the delicious aroma. He was looking forward to seeking the look of surprise on Jelena’s face when she tasted it.

“Roger!” Novak yelled from the bathroom where he was attempting to wash the dog they found. There was no way Jelena would let any animal near Lukas if it was covered in dirt with knotted hair. Roger ran over to find Novak drenched in water and soapy bubbles, holding the dog triumphantly in the air. “This dog is white!”

Roger laughed, looking into the murky brown bathwater, grabbing a towel and taking the wet dog from Novak’s hands. Novak was right. It was no longer the beige color from before, it was now pristinely white. “Now he looks like a snowball,” Roger commented as he patted the water from the dog’s back.

Novak looked down at himself and the foul-looking water under his feet. “I don’t have time to shower, do I?” Novak asked, wiping off the clumps of soap bubbles that had attached themselves to his arms and shirt.

Roger shrugged. “There are worse things to be covered in than soapy bubbles,” he said, holding back a laugh. He tossed a towel to Novak and chased the half-dry dog into the kitchen where he couldn’t get anything too wet.

\--------------

“What the hell are you doing?” Novak asked as he walked into the kitchen, finding Jelena digging through the trash. “You said you were getting more wine.”

“I’m just trying to figure out how you did it. I’m seriously impressed,” Jelena said.

Novak blushed. “Roger might’ve helped,” he admitted.

“I knew it!”

“He didn’t actually make anything, he just told me how,” Novak defended.

“He taught you?” Jelena asked with wide excited eyes.

“Just one dish. It’s not like I’m some great cook now or something,” Novak said, trying to be casual.

“Oh my God! You totally love him!” she practically squealed.

“Shh,” Novak insisted, nodding toward the door. “Don’t you dare tell,” he warned dramatically in a stern tone, but he could hardly keep from smiling.

“Why would I tell him? You have to, of course!”

“No way, I don’t—” Novak defended, not finding the words. “You can’t just love someone after three months.”

“Uh huh,” Jelena said, skeptically.

“Damn,” Novak said, finally realizing how deep he was in.

\---------

“I am truly impressed,” Diana admitted over wine and dessert. “You’ve only had him two years and there is no sign of abandonment issues or insecure attachments.”

“Um, thank you?” Jelena accepted the compliment, but she didn’t entirely know what Diana meant.

The Swiss woman smiled. “I just mean, under those circumstances, being separated from parental influence for so long, a kid could come out of it pretty screwed up. Lukas seems pretty well-adjusted and dare I say it, normal,” Diana observed as they watched him try to teach the pup to fetch.

“That’s what I was going for,” Jelena commented. “Any chance a kid his age could actually care for a dog?” she added, glaring at Novak.

“Sense of responsibility is fairly well developed by seven. If the commitment is there, sure,” she advised.

“Viens, Pierre,” Lukas said, bringing the dog in the house. Jelena rolled her eyes.

“Pierre, huh?” Novak asked with a raised brow at Jelena.

“Yeah, like the fireman,” Lukas explained simply.

Jelena laughed. “Pierre is my ex boyfriend. I think Lukas liked the rides on the fire truck more than I actually liked the guy.”

“Pierre’s not a bad one, better than our name,” Roger said.

“What was yours?” Diana asked.

“Nole was calling him Cher.”

Jelena and Diana erupted in laughter, not bothering to explain.

“What’s wrong with that?” Novak asked. “It’s the only thing he answered to.”

Diana laughed. “You guys are so gay. Who names a dog after Cher?”

\---------------------------------------------

Roger collapsed onto the bed, shrugging off his clothes and slipping under the covers. He never thought getting noticed by a crowd and trying to be casual while tourists played paparazzi would be so exhausting. He could hear Novak in the shower, but for once he didn’t feel like joining. Keeping your balance on the slick surfaces of the shower was actually required a fair amount of effort, which he was usually more than willing to contribute, but not on days as long as this one had been. He did intend on staying awake until Novak emerged from the shower, at least to announce that he was back and say hi, but Roger couldn’t stay awake with the comforting patter of the shower in the next room lulling him to sleep.

He knew he couldn’t have been sleeping long when the soft click of a door opening roused him awake, but Roger felt rather rested for the short amount of time. Novak must’ve seen him sleeping because he was obviously trying to be quiet, not even yelling out when he stubbed his toe in the dimly lit room. Roger’s eyes were adjusted to the minimal lighting by now and he could see Novak perfectly in the bluish moonlight streaming in through the windows and the yellow stream of light coming from the bathroom. The Serb had a towel securely fastened around his waist as he dug through the closet. If he was going through laundry anywhere as fast as Roger was, he might have trouble finding any underwear. It seems like every time they try to get dressed for the day, they end up stripping down by noon anyway. Novak seemed to come to a similar conclusion as he gave up for the moment and started to towel off.

All those who say tennis players are not muscular clearly haven’t seen Novak stretching in the moonlight. He wasn’t ripped like Nadal, but there was a certain beauty to Novak’s lean but solid frame. The toned muscles of his back rippled with the effort of drying off and the light sheen of water covering his body added a lovely glow. Roger felt like a creep for watching, but it almost seemed like Novak was putting on a show for him. The way he bent forward to rub down his legs, just barely parting the cheeks of his ass, but not quite showing anything. Roger felt his cock stir in response, begging for attention. He let his hand slip into his boxers and stroke himself. He figured if anyone was allowed to watch Novak like this, it was his boyfriend.

Roger’s eyes fell closed when he worked himself near the edge. He might’ve looked asleep if not for the frantic motion of his hand beneath the sheets. Novak fell into his place on the bed, enjoying the startled look on Roger’s face and how quickly he stopped his movements when he was caught.

“When did you know I was awake?” Roger asked as Novak greeted him with chaste kiss.

“I didn’t for sure. If I looked over it would’ve ruined the effect, and if you were asleep I’d have felt awful silly,” Novak replied playfully.

“Well I’m certainly awake now,” Roger said, his breathing not quite evened out.

“Yeah, you’re definitely awake,” Novak said, cupping his hand over Roger’s hard cock.

“Yeah,” Roger moaned his agreement, which ended up sounding a bit more like, “ugh.”

Novak smiled deviously and Roger only had to wonder for a moment at what Novak was thinking. The Serb slid the sheets down Roger’s body and breathed over his length. Roger felt his cock twitch in anticipation. Novak started slow with teasing licks until Roger was little more than a squirming mass beneath him.

“More,” Roger pleaded, twisting his fingers through Novak’s short hair but never pushing.

Novak smiled, giving up the game and giving Roger what he wanted.

It wasn’t long until Roger was on the edge, just when the Swiss man was about to let go, Novak pulled away, wrapping his fingers tightly around the base of his shaft. Roger looked up at him with wide, desperate eyes.

“Do you want my mouth or to fuck?” he questioned bluntly.

Roger’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the suggestion, but he was torn. Mouth would be immediate and he really wanted a quick release, but he knew fucking Novak would give him a better orgasm and get them both off, hell just thinking about it nearly sent him over.

“Let’s fuck,” Roger mumbled.

Novak smiled, clearly getting the answer he wanted. After all this teasing, he was hard too and he really wanted more than a hand job. Novak climbed off Roger and emptied the drawer of supplies, handing them to Roger. He started to lie down on his back, but Roger kept him upright, redirecting him with a smile. Novak was kneeling when Roger pushed his shoulders forward so that the Serb was balancing most of his weight on his hands and the rest on his knees. Roger moved behind him, their bodies melting together seamlessly. Roger kissed the back of his neck and ran his hands over the same back muscles he was admiring earlier.

Roger kissed his way down Novak’s back, relishing the little moans he received when he found a particularly sensitive spot. He traced the line of Novak’s backbone with his tongue, feeling a shiver shake through the Serb when he got near his backside. Curious, Roger did it again, daring to go a bit lower and found Novak very receptive.

Roger remembered reading about this on that website months ago, but it had never really crossed his mind to try it. He remembered thinking it was a little gross back then, and even now he probably wouldn’t be considering it if Novak hadn’t just come out of the shower, but for some reason he really wanted to try it now. In the past, they’ve always fucked face to face. From the very first time Roger suspected it was a trust issue more than an intimacy one. He wanted to try it like this after watching Novak from behind, and he hope that rimming wouldn’t be taking it too far.

It was the kind of thing that you wouldn't think about doing, it doesn't come up in your fantasies or dreams, but then there is a moment when you find yourself so turned on by the idea that only a no from your partner would banish the thought. That is how Roger found himself hesitantly licking at his boyfriend's puckered flesh. He probably wouldn't have been this brave if Novak hadn't just come from the shower, the heavy scent of soap still coated his skin. If Roger was at all unsure, his doubts were crushed when Novak moaned and pushed against his hesitant tongue, reaching his arm back to connect with Roger somehow. The Swiss man held his hand as he stretched Novak's hole with his tongue.

Roger couldn't get nearly as deep, and he wondered how effective this method of preparation truly was, but he had to admit it was hot. If any doubts of his sexuality remained, Roger must've crushed them because there is nothing more gay than sticking your tongue in a guy's ass, actually the fact that he wanted to do it without being asked might be slightly gayer. Roger slipped in a finger alongside his tongue and reached as far as he could, circling gently, as gracefully as he could.

As much as he liked exploring this new sexual medium, Roger was getting painfully hard again and he'd been waiting a long time to get off. He licked his way up Novak's back and sucked on the Serb’s neck, vaguely aware he was leaving a mark. "You ready, babe?" he asked, and Novak panted a "God, yes."

Novak moved to lay flat on his stomach, but Roger pulled him up so they were kneeling on the bed, their bodies melding together. He could get so close to Novak like this, every part of their skin touching and he could feel the tight muscles in the Serb's back. Roger could feel his uncertainty, just a slight tremble that ran through him, but when Roger placed a reassuring hand on the small of his back, the Serb relaxed, trusting him completely.

Roger kissed along Novak's neck and shoulders as he slipped on a condom and liberally applied the lube, vaguely noticing that this once new bottle was almost empty. He slipped in carefully, very aware that switching up the position took away some of his acquired skill and knowledge. He didn't know if it would feel differently for Novak this way, so he waited until Novak was pushing back against him to move.

Roger kissed along Novak's back as he thrust into the Serb, enjoying the hands free nature of this position, everything just seemed to fit. He ran his arms down Novak's tense arms and found his hands twisted in the sheets. Roger placed his hands over Novak's, intertwining their fingers as he maneuvered to find Novak's lips. They had left enough of the covers beneath Novak so that he could get a fair amount of friction on his cock while Roger pushed into him. It was more difficult to balance this way, but Roger felt like he was getting deeper, touching places in Novak he'd never felt before. And the slight curve of his length seemed to line up favorably to Novak's prostate. It wasn't long before they were coming, Roger first, still sensitive from all the teasing and his most recent masturbatory dream coming true moments after he'd thought it, followed by Novak a couple of strokes later.

Roger collapsed, trying his best to roll to the side with his tired muscles. Novak was in a similar state, panting it out with a blissful look on his face.

"That was amazing," he said softly, kissing the tip of Roger's nose as their heads shared a pillow.

"Unbelievable," Roger agreed happily. It is times like this when the Swiss man was so consumed with happiness that he thinks nothing will ever rival it, only to be disproved days later by something else Novak does. There's a word for that, Roger thought vaguely, pulling Novak closer to him as they drifted off to sleep.

\-----------------------------------------------

On his last day in Monte Carlo, Roger woke relatively early, at least in comparison to the late mornings he’d grown accustomed to this past week. It seems like Novak was feeling less lethargic as well because when Roger looked out the large class doors of the balcony, he could see the Serb lounging against the banister, soaking up the sun and enjoying the view. Roger untangled himself from the covers and joined him.

It looked pleasant enough outside and from Novak’s state of undress, Roger assumed he would be just fine in only his boxers as well.

“It’s freezing out here!” Roger announced dramatically as he slid the door closed behind him, earning him a half laugh from Novak and a tail wag from Pierre, who was lying on a welcome mat Novak had ironically placed on his third floor terrace.

“It’s not that bad, at least for January it’s not,” Novak corrected, opening his arms for Roger to hug him for warmth. Roger agreed. It couldn’t be lower than 60 degrees, but it never got very cold in Monte Carlo and he wasn’t expecting it.

“It does feel rather chilly,” Novak admitted as Roger rubbed the goose bumps on his arms. “Though I’m not sure we’re in the best state to judge the weather,” Novak added playfully. “Not many temperature readings are gathered in only underwear.”

“Probably not,” Roger agreed, moving to embrace Novak from behind so they could both enjoy the twinkling effect the sun had on the water as it inched up the sky. Roger wrapped his arms around Novak’s waist, pressing their bodies together and resting his chin on Novak’s shoulder. They were comfortable here in the quiet of the morning, and the world felt peaceful.

Roger found himself thinking along a path he didn’t usually care to venture: the future.

Roger has always lived in the present. In this match, this meeting, this interview, this moment. He didn’t look ahead to the next tournament until he was done with the current one and he never looked ahead in the draw, expecting a match to go a certain way. For all Roger knew, his career could be over tomorrow and that is what he hated thinking about most, what was a great champion to do after he’d been dethroned for good?

He couldn’t help but feel sad that one day he wouldn’t be a part of the tennis world, the very thing that had occupied his life wholly for the past two decades would be in his past. Roger never had thoughts of what he would do when that day came; he left those unpleasant thoughts to Mirka, who had already dealt with her own fall into insignificance.

Mirka had plans for them, Roger knew that well. She wanted marriage and babies, hopefully in time to watch their father play while he’s still important. Then they would retire to some handsome estate in Switzerland and live as simply as two such elegant and sophisticated people could manage. And most of all, she wanted to find some way to keep them relevant and famous for the rest of their lives. It all felt so contrived, and if he was really honest with himself, it didn’t feel like a life he could be happy living.

That is why Roger was surprised to find himself dreaming of more mornings like this, simple and lovely, so contentedly comfortable together. It felt effortless and natural. He could imagine them just like this in a month, or a year, or maybe even five years down the road. Just staring out into the horizon, he thought about waking up to this view every morning. And after seeing how naturally good with children Novak is, Roger could imagine them building a life together, a family. Standing there with Novak, he could picture them always being like this, and for the first time in many years, Roger didn’t fear the future. If the future meant being with Novak, he welcomed it. To Roger, this felt like forever.


	18. Chapter 18

There are some realizations in life that just hit you, seemingly out of nowhere, and in these moments of true self-awareness all questions fade and everything seems so simple and obvious. For Roger, this moment came as the airplane thundered down the runway, pulling up into the sky and drifting away from Monte Carlo. He felt tied to the city, anchored to a certain man within it and his ridiculously lavish apartment that was just beginning to feel like home, much more so than the constant stream of hotel rooms that fill the rest of his year. Roger felt like a part of him belonged here and by flying in the opposite direction he was taking something from its rightful place.  
  
That’s when it hit him. He was looking out the tiny window at what had to be the purest, bluest ocean in the world, now heavily populated with tourists, thinking about Novak’s private strip of beach and the time they spent there. I just…love him, Roger thought, surprised by the candid admission.  As soon as he thought it, Roger grinned, knowing it was absolutely true. He was in love with Novak. He felt it now so strongly, and the more Roger thought about it, the more certain he was that he’d loved Novak for quite some time now.  
  
If Roger was perfectly honest with himself, some part of him was aware of this love before the plane even took off. But he couldn’t find the words then, so consumed by his own fears of rejection and the realness of it all. In that moment it was just an overwhelming rush of fondness and admiration and deep, deep affection. They were at the edge of the tourist area then, just before you get to the Hotel and Casino, spending their last moments together while Diana called for a cab to the Heliport. When Roger pulled back from a kiss to look at Novak, really look at him, smiling with bright joy radiating from within, incandescently happy because they were together. Some part of him knew then that he was in love with Novak Djokovic.  
  
But the Swiss man couldn’t say it then because he knew he would cry. He was fairly used to that by now, crying at inconvenient moments when he was overwhelmed by emotion, but these would not be a few solitary tears. He felt the ugly, messy, crying-into-your-hands-like-you-just-won-your-first-Wimbledon tears coming on and once those started Roger lost all control. So he leaned into the warmth of Novak’s body, kissing him until the driver came and Diana dragged him away. Roger promised they would see each other soon, and his heart swelled thinking about the moment when he would finally tell Novak that he loved him.  
  
“What are you grinning about?” Diana asked as she slid back into her seat, returning from the restroom. “You look like an idiot,” she mocked affectionately.  
  
“I love him,” Roger said, his stupid giddy smile widening despite her slight.  
  
“Matthew McConaughey?” she asked, glancing over the in-flight movie playing on the little screens in front of them. She shook her head. “Totally overrated. He looks more sun damaged than tan, and even surfers have to put on clothes occasionally, right? And I’m not talking about Hawaiian shirts,” she said, shaking her head like don’t even get me started on that.  
  
Roger shook his head, amused by her misunderstanding. “Not him. I’m not talking about the movie,” Roger said, looking around them at the other passengers. He leaned in close just as a baby three rows in front of them conveniently started screaming. “I’m in love with Novak,” he admitted, the smile returning.  
  
“Duh,” said Diana amusedly. “You just now figured that out?” she asked, shaking her head playfully.  
  
She was kidding, but Roger knew what she meant. The feeling itself certainly was not new, he’d felt this way about Novak for months, but he was scared to give it a name. That made everything real, which meant making some major changes in his life. Surprisingly, Roger felt no hesitation. He had a glimpse this week of what his life could be, not just now but in the distant future and he was ready to do whatever was necessary to make it reality.  
  
“Hey look at this picture I found,” Diana said as the midflight sign flashed on, telling them they could once again use their electronics. Roger looked at her phone and smiled. It was Novak at the Australian Open Juniors tournament, holding his trophy proudly above his head. Roger recognized it as the same event where he first saw Novak, years before they formally met. He remembered being appalled by Novak’s arrogance and pride on court, but as a junior Roger wasn’t much different. It said more about tennis players in general at that age than personal flaws.  
  
Roger smirked at his strong reaction to Novak back then, who was just an unknown junior at the time. One thing was certain, he watched many juniors’ matches over the years, looking for worthwhile hitting partners and rising talent, so he rarely remembered the details, but with Novak’s match he remembered every game. Novak seemed to be playing up his attitude too, like he knew it would bother the Swiss man. Roger smiled, wondering if there was a spark between them even back then.  
  
On the long flight, Roger thought about how much his life had changed in the past year. He knew that the tennis commentators would look back on this year as one of his worst, since he only won one Grand Slam and a handful of other titles, but Roger didn’t feel that way at all. Roger came back to life in 2008. It was like he’d been hibernating for all those years, and his recovery had everything to do with Novak.  
  
Roger knew it was not Mirka’s fault that he’d gotten into a slump, though their relationship may have been a contributing factor. It was bad timing mostly. She just happened to be a central part of his life as it was falling apart. And he did exactly what he’s always done when something goes wrong—he played through it. His dwindling personal life had made it easier to focus on tennis, likely made him the success he is today and Mirka just adapted, settling for less attention, less affection and less love. But he was a mature adult now; certainly he could handle both success and love in his life.  
  
It felt odd to compare his feelings for Mirka and Novak, it was a very different kind of love he had for each of them. Roger could not remember a specific moment when he knew he loved Mirka. It was just something they started saying at some point, because that is what other couples who had been together as long as them did. Roger suspected it was that way with a lot of people so he never questioned it. But that love now felt hollow, almost obligatory. When Roger thought about Novak, he could feel the love radiating through him. He was so filled that it threatened to burst from his skin and surround him like an aura. Roger could never remember feeling that way about Mirka.  
  
His thoughts turned to Mirka and the unfortunate realization that he had to tell her about the certainty of his feelings for Novak and what that would mean for their relationship. He wasn’t delusional enough to assume there was any possibility of her taking the news well, but he wanted to make it as painless as possible. It was sure to be an unpleasant task, but Roger knew he couldn’t avoid it any longer. He wasn’t about to let himself choose comfort and familiarity over love, even though it would definitely be easier to leave things as they are. One week of vacation time with Novak was more rejuvenating that a month in Switzerland had been. He was a new man and for the first time in months, he felt like he actually had a shot at winning a Slam again.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Novak could feel the weight of expectations on him from the moment he stepped off the plane. There were people taking his photo as he walked through the airport and fans waiting by his car for an autograph. Last year he was coming into the tournament as an unlikely winner, so was everyone outside the top two players. But now he was the defending champion and all eyes were on him to see if he could once again do the impossible and take the title from Federer and Nadal.  
  
This time he might have to beat them both for the win. Once again his reputation was invested in this tournament and the fate of his career depended on its outcome. The Australian Open would either solidify him as a top player or show that last year was a one off, the right mix of chance and circumstance.  
  
For some reason, Novak wasn’t expecting this much attention in Australia, despite his prior success. He’d played rather well at both the French and U.S. Opens, but Wimbledon was a hugely humbling disaster that he couldn’t quite shake.  Novak had already tired of seeing his name in the headlines with the predictions by "experts" and seeing his victory photo from last year with Jo Wilfried Tsonga.  
  
Even his team was acting strangely. They were tiptoeing around him like a sleeping tiger, acting as if any misstep would jinx him. They were trying to make things exactly the same as last year, trusting the routine more than the player to produce the same result. Marian Vajda had even made sure Bobby stuck around to hit with him, despite the young player losing in the qualifiers round. It was unnerving to say the least.  
  
When Novak got to his room, he unpacked all his clothes into the drawers, refusing to be superstitious. He turned on the TV to check local news for tomorrow’s temperature. The Serb had always struggled in the Australian heat, something about the thick humidity drained him and he had yet to overcome it in a match once he got down. He flipped off the news at the first mention of the Open, not needing to hear another perspective on the possibilities. Novak just wanted the tournament to begin already so they could talk about results instead of what might happen.  
  
Novak was at a loss for what to do with himself. He was not scheduled to be anywhere until the following morning and he certainly was in no rush to speak to his team after their awkward dinner earlier that night. He thought about asking Andy to come over for some video games, but quickly remembered their spat and decided now was not the time for reconciliation attempts. It's not like Novak could answer his questions, and continuing to be evasive would further anger his friend.  
  
After hours of nervous cautious interactions and eyes constantly tracking him, Novak wanted to see Roger more than anything. The Swiss man faced similarly daunting expectations for most of his career and certainly wouldn’t treat Novak any differently because of his increased chances here. Roger probably wouldn’t even understand others’ doubts. He already saw the Serb as a top player, commended him as a champion, and had confidence he would have success again and for that Novak loved him.  
  
Roger would likely know he came in today and Novak wondered if it would seem desperate to ask him to come over so soon after arriving. In the end, Novak decided that it was worth it to see Roger, nothing wrong with a little eagerness. His thumb typed out an invite and sent it to the familiar number with almost no thought. He threw himself back on the bed, flipping on a movie channel while he waited, though only half-watching. His mind was busy recalling the last time they saw each other and how reluctant they were to part.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------  
  
Six hours after Novak’s flight had come into Melbourne; Roger got the invitation he’d been hoping for. It was only a few weeks since they’d parted in Monte Carlo, but so much had changed for Roger. He wanted nothing more than to tell Novak his feelings and what he was willing to do to make it work between them—including facing Mirka with the truth.  
  
Roger had gone down to the hotel restaurant for a leisurely meal while he waited for Novak to return to his room from his customary first night dinner with his team. Roger had spent the past few days with his own people, assuring them that he can win it this year. As much as he respected his trainers and advisers, Roger was at max saturation when it came to Nadal. The press would certainly have endless questions of their own and as much as he liked the guy personally, sometimes Roger got to the point where he couldn’t stand to hear his name. He had other things to be thinking about, far more pleasant things.  
  
Love, his mind reminded as he waited at the elevator doors, finally receiving word that Novak was back in his room and expecting him.  I’m in love with him, Roger thought giddily as the elevator dinged above him. He had been waiting weeks for this moment when he could finally tell Novak his feelings and what he planned to do about it. Roger was practically bouncing with excitement as the doors began to close, everything moving too slowly.  
  
“Hold the door!” he heard and on instinct Roger threw his arm in the door’s path, not bothering to think that a glitch in the elevator’s programming would have the doors crushing his arm and his career along with it.  
  
Fortunately the motion sensors did their duty and the doors retreated back, allowing Andy Murray to step inside, greeting him formally with his name and a nod. Roger could count on his hand the number of times they'd been alone together off court. The Brit was usually surrounded by his team and friends, even more so than other players. Or Novak, his mind added helpfully. Roger looked at the man, trying to figure out if Novak had trusted him with their secret. Andy looked at Roger as blankly as ever. Probably not, he decided.  
  
“Hope you’ve been practicing. I saw Nole hitting a couple days ago, looking better than ever,” Murray teased. It was always strange to hear such strong support of another player, bordering on cockiness, but Roger had grown used to it from Andy about Novak, especially since he was not nearly as confident about his own game yet. “Wouldn’t want a repeat of last year,” Murray added snidely.  
  
“Right,” Roger responded neutrally. He smirked. Murray obviously knew nothing of his relationship with Novak, otherwise he would have known that though disappointing, that match he lost last year led to a thought provoking evening that would go on to change his life completely. He might not want to repeat it this year, but there are worse ways to end a tournament than Novak coming to his room in the middle of the night. Considering the chain of events that followed, Roger didn’t regret that loss in the slightest.  
  
The doors burst open and the seventh floor came into view. Just as Roger was about to step out, Andy asked, “Isn’t this Novak’s floor?” as if the entire level was assigned to him and everyone should know it. Roger shrugged, frustration taking over as he casually pushed the ninth floor’s button and explained that the seven was pushed when he got inside. Murray didn’t seem suspicious so Roger got off on his floor and headed for the stairwell. Thank god it’s only two floors difference, he thought as he descended the stairs.  
  
For the first time since he discovered his feelings in Monte Carlo, Roger felt doubt creeping in. He was certain that Novak loved him just as much as he loved the Serb, but if that was true why wouldn’t he tell Murray about them? Andy has been one of his closest friends for over a decade and yet the Brit still believed the strongest feeling between Novak and Roger is animosity.  
  
Roger shook those thoughts away as he approached Novak’s door. There were any number of possible reasons for Novak not telling Murray, each of them more likely than Novak not loving him enough. He'd thought this moment through countless times, and he's made it this far. No reason to falter now.  
  
Roger felt a wide grin pull across his features as he raised his hand to gently knock. The giddiness returning and after two weeks of thought, Roger was finally there—ready to confess his feelings to the man he loves.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Novak opened the door to find Roger smiling brightly at him. The Swiss man followed him into the room and when the door closed their lips met in a slow, passionate kiss. Roger stayed close when they parted, eyes closed but foreheads touching and fingers stroking Novak's neck tenderly.  
  
“I love you,” Roger spoke softly, his voice all joy and affection.  
  
Novak pulled back to look at his face with wide, happy eyes. He didn't expect to hear those words, not from Roger who usually keeps his emotions closely guarded. But Novak knew he would never say something he didn't mean.  
  
Novak felt his mouth pull into a wide smile, mirroring Roger’s expression as he responded. “I love you too,” he spoke, feeling more teary eyed than he'd like. “God, for so long.”  
  
He brought Roger to him for another kiss, this one more heated and full of meaning. It was like the final puzzle piece locking into place. Roger loves him, loves him like Novak had been hoping for months. He knew his own feelings grew deeper each time they met and for the first time since their relationship began Novak felt they had a real shot at a future together.  
  
Roger seemed to feel the same if the whispered promises between kisses were anything to go by. He said he'd break up with her, they could tell their teams, share hotel rooms on tour, and truly be together like a real couple. “Like in Monte Carlo,” he said fondly and Novak wanted to cry because that's exactly what he wanted—that perfect week for the rest of their lives.  
  
He really loves me, Novak thought in amazement as Roger settled above him on the bed, kissing him everywhere and showing his love with tender, burning touches. Nothing can stop us now...  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Mirka arrived at the hotel just as Roger was returning from a practice session at the stadium. She was instructing the bell boy on how best to unload and stack her luggage to avoid damage. Roger walked up beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder and greeting her with a warm smile.  
  
“You remembered,” she said happily, drawing him closer for a quick peck. Roger felt a pang of guilt at her assumption. He knew nothing of her flight arrangements, only that she would join him the day before the tournament began. As far as he knew, he’d never been told more than that information but he might have just tuned her out. Roger breathed a sigh of relief, soon he wouldn’t have to feel that guilt—soon it would be over.  
  
“Of course,” he responded easily, picking up one of the lighter bags to carry. He heard a distant click of a camera and stiffened. He felt paranoia creep in. Roger feared the pictures would reveal too much. Would the tension in their fractured relationship be obvious? Did his panicked expression reveal what he was about to do?  
  
“That one on top,” Mirka told the young man, motioning for him to take the bag that the Swiss man was holding. Roger smiled at her gratefully and handed it over to the worker, happy to not have to carry it for chivalry’s sake.  
  
“Come to my room?” she requested as they walked into the hotel lobby. “There's something I need to tell you.”  
  
“Sure,” he agreed easily. He had approached her wanting the same thing, a meeting. It was a bit sudden for Roger’s taste, but he was filled with a strange mix of anxiety and excitement at getting this over with sooner rather than later. He was prepared for whatever reaction would come and he’d suffer through it gladly because after this conversation his double life would be over. “I have something to tell you too.”  
  
She seemed startled by his words, or at the very least taken aback because she said nothing more—only nodding in acknowledgement. As they rode silently in the elevator with the bellman, Roger felt dread beginning to seep back in. Mirka was scared—nothing else would quiet her so thoroughly. Roger wasn’t sure if she knew what was coming, or if she just feared being out of control in a situation. He hated putting her in this position, but avoiding this unpleasant conversation would not help anyone. Roger has done the soul searching, he knows what he wants, and dragging it out any longer would just be cruel.  
  
Throughout everything, they’ve always been friends. She looked at him with a hesitant smile as they entered the suite. Roger tried his best to smile back, hoping she wouldn’t hate him for this.  
  
\----------------------------------------------  
  
They waited until the man had unloaded the luggage and left before sitting down in the living room with forced civility, both clearly on edge.  
  
Mirka looked over at him expectantly. Roger found that he was far too nervous to be confined to a chair. He stood and paced the room. “Well, we haven’t been together much lately,” he began awkwardly. All of his planned words jumbling together in his mind. “Like a couple, I mean. We haven’t been acting much like a couple.”  
  
And then she smiled and Roger nearly lost his nerve. He knew what she was expecting next, a reaffirmation of his love for her, a plan to renew their tired relationship, but he couldn’t do it this time. There was too much depending on this decision and he had something to look forward to now. Roger suddenly knew which reaction his news would bring—heartbreak. There was no easy way to break it to her, no way that would hurt any less, so he took a deep breath and laid it on her.  
  
“I think we should end our romantic relationship,” Roger suggested frankly, watching her eyes go wide in horror. “We haven’t been happy together like that in a long time and…” Roger took a deep breath. “I’m in love with someone else.”  
  
Roger flinched as he heard a sharp intake of breath, watching tears fill her eyes. He could tell she was holding them back, always trying to prove she was too strong to cry.  Part of him wanted to offer comfort somehow, he still cared about her deeply, but he feared that would be confusing.  
  
“I never thought you would do something like this,” she said weakly, her voice breaking with hurt. “God, have you been stringing me along all these years while you look for someone else?” she questioned, the horrifying thought just occurring to her.  
  
Roger felt like his heart was in his throat, choking him. He’d expected for Mirka to feel betrayed, but everything is always worse in reality than in your imagination. “I never meant to hurt you. It just happened…” Roger hated how guilty he sounded, like some common cheating boyfriend. His words were ordinary and meaningless, not nearly enough to make up for what he had done to her.  
  
She rolled her eyes as he spoke, tears escaping from the corners which she quickly wiped away. It hadn’t just happened—Roger knew that. It had been happening for months with him actively planning to hide it from her. But knowing how many times he snuck Novak into his room, or lied about where he’d been, none of that would make her feel better. And there were important things he still needed to tell her.  
  
“I’m not sure how to say this. I just—” Roger paused. There was dread in Mirka’s expression when she looked up at him, probably wondering what more he could possibly say.  
  
“I’ve been doing some exploring lately—for quite some time actually,” he corrected, thinking of the months of growing feelings. It all started with an unexpected visit from Novak, late one night at the Australian Open, in a room not unlike this one. He thought of Novak and what this would mean for them. Taking a deep breath he went on. “And now I’m quite certain…”  
  
He watched as Mirka’s expression turned to a distinctive frown. “Roger, just say it,” she said, and he could hear the growing agitation in her voice. But Roger couldn’t look at her—not until he was done.  
  
“Mirka, I’m gay,” he said, surprised at the ease with which it came out, like he’d been making these sort of confessions all of his life.  
  
His eyes flicked to her face just in time to see the stunned expression paired with her sharp gasp. She definitely was not expecting that.  
  
“What?” she responded automatically, her voice a barely spoken breath; though Roger had no doubt she heard him clearly. That’s when the sobs began, dignity be damned. Surely this was more than any person could handle at once. Roger felt his heart clench sympathetically and felt sick to his stomach. His body was screaming don’t do this, begging him to do anything to stop her from crying, but that sort of avoidance is what got him into this situation. He should’ve never let this go on for so long.  
  
In some ways, Roger would have preferred an angry reaction. He would feel much better if she was screaming at him instead of crying. Roger never imagined it going this way, even though it was a likely possibility. He did not want to imagine Mirka being hurt so badly by the news. His mind kept telling him, I did this to her, it’s my fault, as he watched her lose herself in sobbing sadness.  
  
“I guess I always have been deep down, I just never thought about it much—or maybe I didn’t want to know,” Roger spoke, though no-one asked for elaboration. He knew that he was babbling, but he felt the need to explain to her, like he owed her that much. He kept going, needing to fill the room with some other sound than her crying— he couldn’t take a moment more of just standing there watching her cry.  
  
“I want you to know that everything between us was real, I was never faking it or using us as a cover—at least not intentionally,” he assured her, but if anything that made her cry more and louder, as if questioning the validity of their relationship had not yet occurred to her.  
  
Roger sat down across from her and placed a hand on hers, finally giving in to the urge to offer comfort. But if anything her sobs were getting louder and there were muttered words in the mix that Roger couldn’t make out.  
  
“Just talk to me, let me know what you’re feeling,” Roger said in a soothing voice, much calmer than he felt. He was getting antsy. She was usually so outspoken and articulate; he just wanted to know what was on her mind. He was expecting a bad reaction, but this was awful and never ending.  
  
She looked up at him, shaking her head as if seeing him was too painful. Roger felt lost and helpless. For a moment he thought about mentioning that her volume would certainly upset the neighboring rooms, knowing she cares for few things more than propriety, but he knew that would be extremely insensitive.  
  
Roger felt his heart drop as a few words stuck out among her tearful babbling. “Pregnant” “baby” and “gay”. He gasped as soon as the pieces fell together in his mind.  
  
“You’re pregnant?” he asked, unable to keep the fearful panic out of his voice. She quieted. Roger wished he’d schooled his features into something neutral because when Mirka looked up at his reaction, which was certainly a mix of disbelief and devastation, her sobbing shrieked back to life.  
  
It was only then that he remembered Mirka saying she had something to tell him too. Her tone was different then, light and excited. It was clear that earlier today she thought this was good news. Mirka looked nothing like that now, with puffy, dark circles around her eyes and nervous glances, like she’d rather not be having this conversation at all. Roger winced at his own insensitivity.  
  
“No no no,” Roger said, moving to sit beside her on the arm of the chair and holding her shoulders close. “I didn’t mean—I was just surprised. Please, Mirka talk to me,” he begged for what felt like the hundredth time.  
  
“What is there to talk about? You’re gay and I’m pregnant,” she summarized, her sobs lessening to individual tears streaking down her face, which was somehow worse because now Roger could clearly see the hurt in her eyes, the confusion.  
  
“Where do we go from here?” he asked, this time managing a calm, determined expression, not unlike his game face. Inside he was panicking, all hopes of a peaceful split disappearing before his eyes and tears welling up in reaction. He’s always been a crier. Roger knew now that it could never be peaceful, not with a baby involved. But even more disheartening was the realization that there could never be a split— at least not between him and Mirka.  
  
“I don’t know,” she said honestly.  
  
Roger nodded. He felt shaky and could feel blood rushing through his veins much too fast. He just needed to get out of there. His whole world was spinning out of control, like a tornado tearing through his life, ripping up everything he knows and scattering it into a mess of confusion. He did not yet know where the pieces would fall and for the first time in years the right decision was not obvious to him.  
  
His life was getting too crowded. Someone was going to get hurt and Roger couldn’t see a situation where he was not plagued by guilt. Roger didn’t trust himself to articulate any of this, didn’t think Mirka should have to hear his doubts about this baby, since she was clearly torturing herself over it already. So he fled—running out of the room, the hotel, following his feet until he felt better, hoping he wouldn’t run out of country first.  
  
\-------------------------------  
  
Diana’s actions upon arriving in Australia surprised even herself. The first thing she did after checking into the hotel was go check on Mirka. There had always been animosity between them, even before she was officially dating Roger, but Diana knew that even Mirka wouldn’t be able to shake the hurt feelings off that easily. Not to mention that Diana felt some level of guilt for encouraging Roger’s pursuit, and insisting he keep it a secret while he figured things out.  
  
Mirka was definitely surprised to see her at the door of her hotel room, but to her credit, she let Diana inside. “Have you come to gloat?” Mirka asked miserably.  
  
Diana smiled weakly. Mirka was trying to hide how much this was bothering her, but even with her composed demeanor, Diana could tell she’d been crying. Not to mention she looked more disheveled than Diana had ever seen her. “No, of course not. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”  
  
“Well, I’m fine,” Mirka shot at her, voice full of pride.  
  
“Clearly,” Diana said skeptically. Mirka looked humbled. This was a version of her that Diana could deal with.  
  
“I know you’re not fine. Nobody would be this soon after getting that kind of news. Unless they never cared in the first place,” Diana reasoned.  
  
Mirka shot her a glare, daring Diana to accuse her of not caring again. That had always been the main issue between them. Diana never felt that Mirka cared enough about her brother as a person, at least not as much as she cared about him as a legendary tennis player and sports icon.  
  
“I do care,” Mirka said defiantly. “But I knew he was hiding something, for almost a year now he’s been so distant,” Mirka explained sadly. “I just wish he’d told me sooner,” she said. “Everything is so complicated now.”  
  
Diana wasn’t sure what was so complicated about it. If anything the whole situation was a bit simpler now that Mirka knew. It wasn’t easy for Roger and Novak to hide their relationship from the media and their peers, at least now there was one less person to hide from.  
  
“God, I knew too. Years ago when we first met, I thought he was gay. I thought he’d eventually tell me once we were close enough—but then he asked me out,” Mirka shook her head, like she couldn’t believe her stupidity. “Nobody else seemed to think so. And he was so persistent. Eventually I said yes, assuming I’d misread him.”  
  
Diana looked at her with curiosity, trying to negotiate this version of events with her memory. She remembered Mirka’s initial disinterest in Roger, had built her entire opinion of this woman on the fact that she hesitated for months before accepting Roger for a date. Diana assumed that it took Mirka that long to recognize Roger’s talent, finally realizing that he was headed for great things and she wanted in on that future. She looked at Mirka as she spoke, seeing no hints of deception. Suddenly Diana was viewing Mirka in a whole new light.  
  
“I just feel like an idiot,” Mirka admitted. “All these months he’s been pulling away and I just tried to hold on tighter, do anything to bring us back to the way we were. But I never even stood a chance,” she said, silent tears beginning to fall from her eyes.  
  
Diana felt her heart sink in her chest. She wanted to see this situation positively, like thank God Roger finally found someone to be happy with, but she couldn’t help but see the similarities between Mirka and all of the heartbroken divorcees that she’s counseled after their husbands selfishly left them for someone else.  
  
“I know how this is going to sound,” Diana said, rolling her eyes as she repeated the lines she’s heard too many times. “He didn’t mean for this to happen. I mean, it’s not like he went out looking for someone else. It seems like they just started growing closer—as friends—and then these feelings formed gradually over time until…”  
  
“He was in love,” Mirka finished, her voice breaking as she said it.  
  
Diana was surprised. “Did he say that?” she asked. Mirka solemnly nodded. She knew Roger loved him, and hopefully by now Novak knew that too, but she was surprised that Roger was confident enough to say it to Mirka.  
  
“I just wish he would have told me sooner,” Mirka repeated, shaking her head like she wished things were different. “I had guessed there was probably someone else, but this is so much more than that. I spent months desperately trying to win him back, show him it was worth it to stay, but I could have been trying to understand what he was going through, maybe even support him eventually.”  
  
“I told him not to tell you,” Diana admitted with a blush, taking responsibility for her advice, even as Mirka shot her a glare. That’s always the downside to being a therapist—sometimes you get things wrong. “He wanted to—as soon as he started having feelings for him, Roger wanted to tell you. I told him that he had to be sure it wasn’t just a passing interest before he changed his whole life. I just didn’t want Roger to screw up your relationship if he wasn’t very serious about this guy.”  
  
“Well I guess he’s sure then,” Mirka said, sounding less distressed than before. “I just wish I would’ve known,” she repeated. “The way I acted…” she said, shaking her head, clearly upset with herself. Mirka was staring unseeingly at a plant in the corner, lost in thought. She started crying again and Diana wondered what she was thinking about.  
  
“Is he happy with him?” Mirka asked after a while, unsure whether she wanted to know the answer.  
  
Diana smiled. “I’ve never seen him happier,” she offered reassuringly. But that didn’t seem like the answer Mirka wanted to hear because she started crying hysterically, going through tissue after tissue.  
  
Diana tried to calm her. When that didn’t work, she excused herself to the restroom to give Mirka a private moment to compose herself. Given their history, Diana could understand if her presence made things worse.  
  
That’s where she found it, sitting there innocently in the trash bin, with a big smiley face staring up at her tauntingly. Diana leaned against the sink, feeling the air sucked out of her lungs, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe right.  
  
“No,” she felt herself saying, grasping a hand over her traitorous mouth. Babies are supposed to a happy blessing for a family, but she was having a hard time seeing this ending in anything but disaster. Diana felt tears streaking down her cheeks as she realized that whatever happiness her brother had managed to find was about to be ruined.  
  
How? That was her first thought, because if there was one thing Diana was sure of, it was that the sexual part of Roger’s relationship with Mirka had been over for quite a while. Diana felt anger overwhelm her, how could this have happened? Surely Roger knows better than to be sleeping with two people at once. She grabbed the stick from the trash, not even having the foresight to use a tissue or something, considering it had been peed on, and charged into the main room.  
  
“What the hell is this?” she asked, feeling panic spread through her body. When Mirka looked up at the stick, she started shaking her head and buried her face in a tissue.  
  
Diana let the stick fall from her hand and tore the tissue from Mirka’s hand. “I’m going to need an explanation,” she demanded.  
  
When Mirka looked up at her there was remorse in her eyes, which made Diana pause. She felt her anger melting away. Part of her felt bad for Mirka because that’s not how any woman should react to pregnancy news.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Mirka mumbled through her tears. Diana found herself moving toward Mirka, placing a hand reassuringly on her shoulder.  
  
“I just wish I would’ve known earlier,” Mirka repeated and this time Diana heard what she couldn’t bring herself to say. Mirka wished she would’ve known about all this before she was pregnant.  
  
Diana wanted to be angry, for Roger’s sake and what this news would mean for his future, but she found herself more understanding of Mirka’s position than she expected. She’d seen far too many women lose their husbands to “the other woman” and she couldn’t blame her too much for trying to fight back. Perhaps if she would have known about the changes in Roger’s life, things would be very different.  
  
“Do you want to talk about it?” Diana asked softly, knowing that there is nobody else in her life that Mirka could trust with this information.  
  
She looked up in surprise. This wasn’t how they interacted. For seven years they’ve been at odds and Mirka was clearly surprised that Diana was taking the high road, offering her support. Mirka nodded hesitantly, realizing she didn’t have another option. “I knew he was seeing someone else, for months I’ve known, but I just thought it was some girl from the women’s tour. Maybe a coach or trainer if not one of the players. I was just so scared that he was going to leave. I’d lose everything if he left,” Mirka said with tears streaking down her face that she blotted away with a tissue.  
  
“But you knew a baby would commit him to you permanently,” Diana spoke softly, saying what Mirka did not want to. The pregnancy was intentional.  
  
It was exactly the sneaky, conniving behavior that she expected of Mirka, but for once she didn’t blame her. The fear of losing your place in the world can be a very powerful motivator to do some really crazy things, and for many years now Mirka’s place has been at Roger’s side. Her whole identity is tied into their relationship. That is who she is to the world, Roger Federer’s partner.  
  
“I drove myself crazy with suspicion,” Mirka admitted. “I just kept thinking, it was only a matter of time before he had to choose between us—and I knew he wouldn't leave a child.”  
  
Mirka looked properly ashamed of her own actions and the ensuing repercussions, so unlike the woman Diana knew for years, full of confidence and pride. She always wanted Mirka to be taken down a notch, but not like this—she never wanted to see Mirka’s life completely wrecked. Diana couldn’t help but feel that some of this was her fault. She believed Mirka when she said that she wouldn’t have behaved this way if she had known that Roger was gay. But it was Diana who told Roger to wait, to make sure he knew that his relationship with Novak was the real deal. She was trying to spare Mirka from any unnecessarily hurt feelings, but now everyone would get hurt.  
  
“I just wish I could go back to Christmas and change everything,” Mirka said regretfully. And it finally dawned on Diana the lengths to which Mirka went to ensure conception. All that alcohol, Roger tipsier than she’d ever seen him in her life. And her father’s missing pills, which Diana later found out, were of the little blue pill variety (a total TMI over-share by her parents). Diana felt the anger she buried earlier bubble back up to the surface.  
  
“Please tell me you didn’t really do all I think you did at Christmas,” Diana asked, hoping her assumptions were wrong. She had assumed Mirka had done something mildly conniving, like skipping a dose of birth control or poking holes in a condom, but this was a whole new and less forgivable level of crazy.  
  
Mirka’s look of disgrace told her everything. Diana had learned long ago that what people are capable of will always shock you, and today Mirka taught her a lesson about self-preservation instincts and a new level of desperation.  
  
“How am I ever going to tell him?” Mirka asked, looking guilty and defeated.  
  
“You’re not,” Diana said with certain confidence. “If he doesn’t remember the details of that night, then you shouldn’t remind him. I suspect he’ll have a hard enough time accepting the situation as it is, and what he’ll have to do, without adding questionable consent and suspicious behavior to the picture.”  
  
“I thought I was doing what was best for us, but now I’ve ruined everything for him,” she said, and for the first time in six years Diana understood how much Mirka truly loves her brother, and not just his career, status and fame. She was ready to let him go, if not for this baby, she would give him the freedom to be happy—even if it wasn’t with her. It was a heartbreaking realization in the midst of a situation with no happy endings in sight. And for the first time since their acquaintance began, Diana was beginning to care for Mirka—right at the moment she should hate her most.  
  
“When I told him I was pregnant—God, he was just so heartbroken,” Mirka said sadly, remembering the moment before Roger ran off.  
  
“He’s going to resent me for the rest of our lives,” Mirka brooded certainly, and Diana couldn’t offer her much consolation. “And the baby…how’s he going to feel about the baby?”  
  
She had always admired her brother’s kind, gentle spirit. Diana was quick to assume the worse and he was just as quick to forgive, but this might be too much to overcome, even for him. Diana had seen his devotion to Novak firsthand and knew he wouldn’t give the Serb up without a fight. She just hoped his moralistic meltdown over this decision would not be enough to destroy him.  
  
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Diana, and that was as much reassurance as she could offer truthfully. “At least he already knows,” she offered, knowing that the stress of that revelation must have been awful. But Mirka didn’t seem relieved.  
  
“So exactly how certain are you?” Diana asked, nodding toward the pregnancy test, which she’d dropped on the coffee table at some point. Mirka shot her a glare when she realized the peed-on stick was just inches from her cup of tea.  
  
“I’ve just taken the one. I can’t exactly go around Melbourne shopping for such things. It’d be all over the internet by tomorrow,” she said, resigned.  
  
“How did you get that one?” Diana asked, wanting nothing more than to tell Mirka that she was not that famous, but holding her tongue when she remembered that Tennis Watch blog.  
  
“I got an elderly woman to buy it for me at the airport shop. I took the test in the restroom there,” Mirka admitted.  
  
“Well I’ll buy a couple more. No need to flip out over this until we’re absolutely certain,” Diana said, ignoring that they had done just that for over an hour now. She grabbed her purse and left to find a convenience store, intending to by several more pregnancy tests and lots of wine. If Mirka is not pregnant they can have a toast and if she is, Diana is going to need a drink.  
  
Three tests later, they were as sure as could be and Diana finally let herself think Oh fuck.  
  
\----------------------------------------  
  
Diana couldn’t sit still for the rest of the day, wondering and worrying about the chaos in her brother’s life.  
  
“What are you pacing around for?” Jim asked, looking up from the TV at his wife who was roaming around the room aimlessly.  
  
She shook her head. “Believe me, you don’t want to know,” she promised. “Drama rama.”  
  
He smiled sympathetically, grateful to be spared from the drama, at least for now. Whatever it was would certainly blow up eventually, or Diana would tell him once things had settled down. “It’s almost four o’clock,” he commented. “Do you think Roger and Mirka want to meet us for dinner?”  
  
Diana smiled at the irony. “I highly doubt it,” she replied and from her tone he could tell he was treading toward the source of her concern.  
  
He shrugged, not really minding the exclusion of the other couple. These days they were rarely pleasant dining companions anyway. “Your choice then. I don’t know anything about Australian restaurants.”  
  
“I know a good place,” she assured him. “But I’ve got something to do before we go.”  
  
Jim chuckled to himself. “Drama rama?” he questioned, watching as she gathered her purse and phone to leave.  
  
Drama rama is right, Diana thought, trying to think of anything but the worried clench in her stomach that was surely related to the fact that somewhere in this city, her brother’s heart is breaking into a million pieces.  
  
\---------------------------------------------------------  
  
When Diana found her brother, Roger was nearly three miles away from the hotel, sitting on a bench overlooking the water. To the casual observer he might have looked peaceful, but Diana could see the distress bubbling below the contemplative exterior. He looked up when her shadow fell across his face.  
  
“How did you find me?” he asked, unsure where exactly he was—certain he wouldn’t be able to give directions. He ran through the streets of Melbourne until he found the empty bench. He stopped there, finally having the forethought not to tire himself out during a major tournament. He collapsed on it, laying there for hours while the sounds of crashing waves revived him.  
  
“I might have activated the GPS chip in your cell phone,” Diana suggested sheepishly.  
  
Roger rolled his eyes, smiling despite his anguish, because only Diana would think that’s an option. “Isn’t that illegal?”  
  
“I don’t think so. But I did say that I was a cop and you were a missing person—that’s probably illegal,” Diana admitted casually, unconcerned by her deception.  
  
“Don’t think I’ll visit you in jail,” Roger playfully teased, but his heart wasn’t in it.  
  
“Are you ready to talk?” she asked gently. He sighed heavily.  
  
“I don’t even want to think about it, but I can’t stop,” Roger said, dropping his head into his hands. “What am I going to do, Diana?”  
  
“I don’t know,” she said, desperate not to get involved in any more major life decisions. No matter the outcome, this whole situation would surely end in resentment, or at the very least regret, and she didn’t want to give anyone a reason to be cross with her.  
  
“I was happy. Just a couple days ago I swear I was,” he said, exasperated by the situation. “And now my life is a mess!”  
  
“I know, Roger. I’m so sorry.”  
  
“I just feel like there are no options. As much as I want to be in this baby’s life, I don’t see how I can be without giving up everything that matters most to me,” Roger said, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “It’s not even the baby I’m worried about though. I know I will love it and be in its life. How couldn’t I? But I’m terrified what that will mean for the rest of my life. You know how traditional Mirka’s parents are, ours too. They’ll expect us to get married and live together and be this perfect little family.”  
  
“And you’re wondering what that means for you and Novak,” Diana followed his line of thought. He nodded. Roger was pretty traditional too and she couldn’t imagine him having a boyfriend while married.  
  
Roger was crying now, the solemn dignified tears that Diana knew well. “Everything is changing so quickly. I just want them to stay the same.”  
  
“I know,” she said sympathetically, praying that this mess works out okay, but not seeing a single scenario where it could.  
  
\---------------------------------------------------  
  
Something was wrong, Novak could see it in Roger's face the moment he opened the door. Novak felt his heart pounding sickeningly in his chest as a shiver of cold dread went through him. His mind jumped to the worst possibility—someone must have died. He guided Roger into the room, closing the door as he pulled the Swiss man into an embrace. He thought of all the people in his life, ones he couldn't imagine living without and steeled himself for the news. At least I have him, Novak thought, feeling relieved at having Roger safe in front of him.  
  
"What happened?" Novak asked finally.  
  
Roger just held him closer, keeping his head bowed like he was afraid to face him. "Mirka is pregnant," he said, the words a bit garbled, but Novak heard him perfectly. He felt the breath knocked out of him, like taking a Roddick serve to the chest. Roger was still talking, mumbling something about marriage and only if he has to, but Novak was just trying to breathe.  
  
When he caught his breath, Roger still felt shaky in his arms and there were tears beginning to soak through his shirt—definitely not the happy kind. Novak just wanted so badly to make this better, to stop Roger from hurting.  
  
"It's—it'll be okay," he heard himself say in a dry, raw voice that didn't sound much like his own.  
  
"Really?" Roger looked up at him hopefully with puffy red eyes and Novak could tell these were not the first tears of the night.  
  
Novak tried his best to look earnest. "We'll figure it out," he promised, stroking his fingers through Roger's hair affectionately. He hoped that wasn't a lie, that maybe they could find a way for this to work out. Roger nodded falling back into the comfort of his embrace. Novak led them to the bed, feeling much shakier on his legs than he wanted to let on. They laid there for hours, taking comfort in each other. Few words passed between them, both scared to broach the topic that might tear them apart.  
  
Novak stayed awake late into the night, well after Roger had fallen asleep beside him. He had been so concerned with making Roger feel like this wasn’t the end of the world that he hadn’t thought much about what it meant for him. Novak untangled himself from Roger and retreated into the bathroom.  
  
Novak looked at himself in the mirror. He looked tired in a way that he had never seen himself, not even when he and Murray stayed out all night partying. He looked defeated too, and the tournament had barely begun. He was emotionally drained from the roller coaster of emotions he felt this week—from the great joy he felt two days ago when they confessed their love to the hours he just spent comforting Roger and promising that it would be okay.  
  
But now in the calm silence of the early morning hours, Novak didn’t see how it could be. He felt in that moment that he needed to be strong—despite the news—for Roger’s sake. The full weight of it was hitting him now. Novak slumped back until his shoulders hit the wall. He slid down—collapsing in on himself, and gripped his knees to his chest.  
  
A baby. Roger was having a baby with his girlfriend that two days ago he promised was history. The part that bothered him most was that Novak had never considered that Roger was sleeping with her too. It hurt him more than he’d like to admit. Roger had never promised exclusivity, how could he while he was still with Mirka, but for a year now Novak had thought of nobody else.  
  
Novak felt tears streak down his face, hot and stinging against his skin. The truth is, he’d felt it the moment Roger walked through the door and told him about the baby—they were over. Maybe not today or this month, but their relationship couldn’t survive something like this. Roger might say that marriage isn’t imminent now, but Mirka would insist, she had a right to—recent break up or not. And once they were married, Roger couldn’t betray their vows—he was too honest, too good. And if Roger dared defy Mirka’s marriage intentions, if he chose to be with him, he might grow to resent Novak because he wouldn’t be the kind of person he wants to be. Roger would feel guilty for not making the necessary sacrifices for his child.  
  
If that was their future, they might as well end it now. Novak’s tears turned to sobs as he clutched his legs tighter to his chest. He felt sorrow overwhelm him—filling every fiber of his body. It was difficult to imagine that a few days ago they were happy in a way that they would never be again—not together.  
  
Novak heaved himself off the floor and wrote a tearful goodbye on hotel stationary, knowing he’d never have the composure to do what was necessary in person. He wrote it all down and read over it carefully, knowing that these words would be the last to pass between them as lovers.  
  
Novak gathered some clothes into his practice bag and set it by the door. He went back to the bedroom where Roger lay peacefully, his arm still reaching out over Novak’s indention—waiting for him to return. It was the final calm moment before the storm, and Novak wanted nothing more than to join him.  
  
He felt something in him shatter as he realized he would never fall asleep beside Roger again, they would never again make love. They would probably not even speak to each other much after this, and when they did it would be about tennis, Novak thought sadly, his throat burning with a new wave of tears. Novak kissed Roger softly on the forehead and walked out the door, ignoring that this was his hotel room. He remembered thinking hours ago that someone had died, turns out it was them.  
  
\-----------------------------------------------------  
  
The truth is, Roger had not been totally surprised by Novak’s disappearance, or the heartbreaking note explaining why he had to walk away. Roger had come here that night expecting some sort of rejection, but he was so caught up in the comfort of being with Novak that he hadn’t realized the ending had just been postponed. I don’t want you to have to choose between me and your family, Novak had explained in his letter, the smudge marks from where his tears met wet ink showing how difficult it was for him to write.  
  
You could never be happy if you were not there for your child—that’s what I love about you, he wrote on and Roger knew he was right. As happy as he is with Novak, Roger couldn’t live with himself if he abandoned his child. He wished more than anything that he wasn’t such a gentleman, that he could keep Novak in his life and not take responsibility for the situation with Mirka. But he’s not that man and he must deal with things as they are.  
  
Roger tucked the letter into his pocket, certain he would read over it many more times. He might be reading it for the rest of his life, trying to figure out how all the love between them could be dismissed in a single letter.  
  
He took the day off from training, wallowing in his room until he reached a state of solemn acceptance. Novak was right; he could never abandon his child without regret, or put Mirka in that position. Roger would do the right thing, as always, even if nothing in his life had ever felt so wrong.  
  
\---------------------------------------------------  
  
There was never a moment when Novak felt the Australian Open slip away from him. To be honest, he never felt like it was within his grasp, defending champion or not. His mind was chaotic and his body felt like it was ripping apart at the seams, a new ailment each day. He was out of sync and more than anything he just wanted out. He couldn’t shake the daunting thought that even if he made it through this match he’d have to face Roger in the next round.  
  
And then there was Andy Roddick staring him down from across the net. He started thinking about their prior matches, always pretty close scores. And how Roddick is a good player, a Grand Slam champion himself. It would be a respectable lost and at least the American would inherit his favorable draw.  
  
That’s when Novak knew it was time to leave—when he started justifying the loss to himself there was no hope of him pulling through. And who knows if he even wanted to. So it was decided, three games into the fourth set he withdrew for heat exhaustion and a sore throat.  
  
\---------------------------------------------------

Novak scoffed at Roddick making fun of him in the press conference. He’d forgotten about that possibility. Andy Roddick might be a respectable player but he can also be a real jerk sometimes. Novak told jokes too, but never like that. He made fun of little things, personal quirks and oddities. He would never question someone’s integrity—accuse them of lying about injuries so blatantly. Novak looked around the locker room to see who else was watching him get mocked, Roddick claiming now that he had numerous illnesses including SARS and the bird flu.  
  
He chanced a glance to the part of the locker room he’d avoided all week. He saw Roger in his usual area and for a moment their eyes locked. Novak turned away, cursing himself for giving in and looking over there. He was desperate to continue avoiding the Swiss man, but he could hear Roger’s footsteps approaching.  
  
“Nole,” he heard softly behind him, a hand touching his shoulder gently.  
  
Novak stopped and turned abruptly. “I can’t do this right now,” he pleaded, knowing that this place was far from private and not trusting himself to keep it together.  
  
“I’m not—” Roger started, but backed off, aware of their surroundings. “I wasn’t meaning to bother you,” he said carefully. “I just wanted to see if you were okay,” he explained.  
  
“I’m fine,” Novak answered brusquely, not caring if his tone was a bit harsh. He just needed Roger to go away, understand that he wasn’t ready to deal with this yet. Novak wondered if he’d ever be able to face Roger again, to interact normally like they used to—could they even compete against each other anymore?  
  
“Then why would you withdraw, and over a sore throat?” Roger asked. “I know it would be awkward to play each other, but you can’t just—”  
  
“No. You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Novak nearly shouted. He heard his voice travel through the locker room, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. For the first time since their break up, Novak allowed himself to be mad at Roger. He was the one that made a baby with someone else, destroying everything they had together in the process, and now he was telling Novak what he can and can’t do. It wasn’t fair. “Not anymore,” he said, turning away as his heart clenched painfully, nearly cutting off his breathing.  
  
Roger was about to follow him, he wanted to respond but Fernando Verdasco appeared nearby, stepping between them and leading Novak away with a disapproving look toward Roger. He gave up when it was clear Verdasco was not leaving Novak’s side and people were starting to move around the locker room, wondering what was going on.  
  
“Thanks,” Novak said softly to Fernando who stayed by his side while he packed his bag.  
  
He shrugged like it wasn’t the big deal that they both knew it was. “Ana would kill me if someone figured you guys out and I did nothing to stop it,” he explained easily. Novak felt there was something Fernando wasn’t saying but he didn’t push.  
  
Novak smiled. Ana _would_ kill him for that, or at least give him a stern talking to. It felt strange that Ana’s boyfriend knew about the break up before her. “Come on,” Verdasco said, leading him toward one of the back exits. “I’m sure she’s waiting to hear the story behind that sore throat.”


	19. Preview of Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT A FULL CHAPTER! I just wanted to give ya'll a preview of chapter 19 and let you know that I am working on it at my usual snail-like pace. I have no idea when it will be ready to post and I don't want to give an estimate because who knows. But I wanted to thank everyone for your continued support and interest in this story. It really means a lot.

Roger wasn't expecting it to be easy. Matches against Rafa are never easy, but he'd thought that the five hour epic semifinal against Verdasco would at least take the edge off his game. He was expecting stiff muscles to hamper the Spaniard's movement --and there were certainly moments of that throughout the match--but Nadal's body was nowhere close to giving out. Roger had come into this match hoping to capitalize on his advantages of shorter matches and more rest time, but once he realized this match would be a true fight he welcomed it.

 

He wanted the match to last, wanted it to stretch on for several tense hours while he fought to make things right again. Roger needed to see his name on that trophy, feel the cool metal in his hands, hug it to his chest. He needed that moment to prove that after everything, some part of him was still okay. And most of all, he needed hope for the future. Hope that someday he might be happy again.

 

But he could never quite get a feel for the match, or predict whether it would go in his favor. Roger usually gauged his chances by how Rafa was holding up physically, but he got the feeling that wouldn't work this time. The times that Nadal has beaten him it has always been because he moved better, hit harder, and had more energy. But in this match, he was outsmarting Roger left and right. He was up two sets to one because of his strategy, not his fierce execution. Nadal was the one constructing points and playing offense.

 

But Roger couldn't give up, not now, because he hadn't put it all out there yet. There was a wave of fresh energy in his reserve and he fought on knowing he needed this more than Rafa--trusting that desperation to drive him through the match. He wanted this match to hurt. Roger wanted to feel the pain of his overused muscles, feel it down to his bones. He wanted to test his body, push it to the limits hoping that as he physically recovers the pain in his heart will heal too.

 

He should have never let his mind wander in that direction because he found himself unable to refocus. Roger has always been good at compartmentalizing distracting thoughts, or at the very least harnessing the emotions to fuel him on court. He thought that he could play through anything, but when it comes to Novak that has never been true. Roger felt his game collapsing as they began the fifth set. He was nearly out of fight and couldn't shake the ruminating thoughts of all he should have said that night.

 

This match was supposed to be his milestone, his fourteenth slam to tie Pete Sampras' record, and just like that it was gone. He’d managed to save a few championship points, just enough to restore his hope that maybe he could come back in the match. But then his forehand flew long and Nadal was flopping onto his back in disbelieving joy and Roger just felt empty.

 

He was overwhelmed--with shock, with disappointment, but most of all with soul crushing sadness. It all hit him in that moment and he could hardly breathe. Roger was sobbing in his chair because his life could not be this bad. There was supposed to be some sort of cosmic order to the world to keep things like this from happening. He looked up at the crowd. They've always been so nice to him, but he couldn't help but take their cheering personally. How could they be happy? Don't they know he's lost everything here in Australia? How will he ever face them again?

 

The worst part was knowing that he was stuck out here. He'd like a few moments alone to compose himself before he suffered through the trophy ceremony, addressing the crowd graciously and trying not to show his devastation at the fresh loss. Nadal was hopping around the court, enjoying his moment, and Roger couldn't find it in himself to hate him for it. They were fierce competitors, but as soon as the match was over Rafa slipped off that mask faster than anybody and he went back to being your buddy. They've been through this too many times for Roger to take it personally and eventually he'll be happy for his friend. But for now, Roger just wanted out of this country.


End file.
